


But, All the Same

by rednihilist



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Drama, F/M, M/M, Other, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively. No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.

 

He makes it back to shore, and then he's out. When he next opens his eyes, the sun is gone, and he decides that for now he's simply going to believe it's only been an hour or two since—everything. If it's been longer, he doesn't want to know.

 

He pulls off the cowl and cape, wraps the former in the latter, and then he sets about trudging farther inland. He'd managed to swim part of the way, stay on his back for the rest and let the tide do the work, but even now he is completely wiped out. He's felt exhaustion before but nothing like this emptiness. It's all gone—the desperation, the rage, the conviction that he would do what needed doing. He's hollow.

 

There should be people in the streets, and he sometimes catches snatches of what he's almost certain is the sound of cheering, but wherever he hobbles, the way is generally clear. He comes close to encountering only three people on the way to the apartment, and it's a long walk from the shore to Oldtown.

 

It's also extremely depressing. The city has never been especially pristine, the cracks in its glamorous façade only growing more pronounced with time, but it's never looked like this. It's post-apocalyptic in the purest sense, and just imagining what's in store for the reconstruction makes him want to cry. He probably would cry, if he weren't so numb.

 

The lock on the building's main entrance was suspect the last time he was here, and it's long gone now. On the stairs leading up, he has to watch out for all manner of debris and garbage. His eyesight's lasted this long, but it's fading fast—blacking out and returning slower each time. His legs feel like jello, and the left is about ready to buckle under the combined weight of his body and the armor. The brace must have malfunctioned at some point, but with the adrenaline it's no surprise he didn't feel it sooner. What's most bothersome is the fire pulsing out from his side with every heartbeat, the stab wound—well, that and the possible radiation poisoning he might soon start feeling the effects of. He wasn't that far from the blast, after all. It's a distinct possibility.

 

Finally, he reaches the right landing. The doors on this floor are all thrown wide open, save one, and he hopes. . .

 

It's not cleared out but plainly ransacked, likely unoccupied for months now. Maybe she'd left it behind before he'd even–

 

He's then down on the floor and thinks, really, this is just fine. He's made it. No one will check this area for days yet, weeks perhaps. He releases the bundle of mask and cape and simply collapses onto his back, the fall jarring his side. His breath escapes in a short hiss, and then he's out again.

 

This time, the light is still dim, but his hand is wet, and there's a strange, irritating sound in the room that he vaguely remembers has been around for awhile. It was a scratching in his dream, bats at the windows of that old place in Hong Kong he shared with Ray and Nikolai. He looks down at his wet hand and is met with a pair of luminescent eyes and the unrepentant expression that is purely and unequivocally cat, as though it were his own fault for leaving such a tasty treat as his hand exposed to the world. He blinks; the cat stares. Slowly, he turns his hand over so that it's palm down, and then even more slowly does he set hand to fur. Gently, he runs it back over ears and neck, and that's as far as he can reach, but the cat doesn't seem to mind.

 

The world seeps back in, sounds outside like engines and distant shouting. The building he's in is still silent, and he's unable to judge by the light coming in through the windows whether it's sunup or sundown, but it doesn't matter which, in the end. He's thirsty and stifling in the armor, but just moving his hand, and by extension his arm, has winded him. As he swallows heavily and closes his eyes again, the furry creature beneath his hand seems to relax further into his petting, and he thinks, " _Purring_ ," before drifting away once more.

 

No bats this time, but he keeps missing the ledge. Only, he doesn't fall. Instead, it's like slipping on ice or even treading water. He reaches up once more, and eyes look back at him, light and dark, taunting and filled with the fervor of righteous destruction. A hand reaches out and slaps him across the face, and he can't get his feet underneath him, can't stand up, and he'll never reach that ledge, never heave himself up.

 

Why do we fall, Bruce?

 

" –stupid, son-of-a- _bitch_! What the hell were you thinking, coming here? The whole city, and you pick this shithole to crawl up in and die?! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you moron! Not a lick of sense, is there? Just come on in and keel over– "

 

He wants to laugh, but his head hurts too much to even think about moving his face. He knows who it is, but he can't think. It's okay, though. It's okay.

 

He can feel her hands fumbling at the catches on the suit and wants to tell her not to worry.

 

" . . . look," he manages to get out, and the hands stop suddenly, "what the cat—dragged in."

 

Silence, and then there's breath ghosting over his face.

 

"You're lucky there's blood all over the floor, or else I'd gut you myself," she whispers, and there's another sound, a lighter scratching, and then he feels her hair brush across his cheek in a cascade. "What is _wrong_ with you?! I thought– we all did. Do. You– "

 

He sucks a breath in and then flings his arm up, catching one of her shoulders and holding on. He'd pull her closer if he could, but–

 

Her lips are dry and thin, no doubt compressed into a tiny line of anger and worry, and he certainly doesn't manage much on his end, but he feels better now. He made her feel better.

 

"It's okay," he says, and it's Batman-low, an unintentional rumble. He should drink something, eat something, get out of the armor and bathe and sew himself up. He'll make a mess of it because he hasn't the patience to do it slowly and with care because it's his own body, and who cares if it scars or not, but. . .

 

"You died," he hears, and it's far away, and it's not his Cat. He's warm, still—hot. There's fire roaring in his head, and he has to get out because he can't stay here, but he can't leave them behind. Why can't he get to both of them? Always a choice, and always the wrong one.

 

The only way is the wrong way.

 

"Many times," Bruce says back to him. "Always. I never make it in time, not even—the dreams. I never get to. Just let it burn," he pleads finally, and in response something cold and wet is placed on his forehead. "Can't make it, too far. Wait," and he reaches out and manages to grab an arm close by, "Alfred! What– what is i– ?"

 

"He's fine. The city's open again—reconstruction, aid, all that."

 

The arm under his hand flexes, turns, pulls away, and then his hand is being held in turn, the calluses noticeable along the index and thumb and palm, from a gun.

 

He squeezes that hand. "Good shot?" he asks.

 

"Too good. I see your reasoning now. No guns—makes it hard afterwards."

 

Bruce opens his eyes, and the light is blinding. He's in a bed, under a sheet, and he's gripping Blake's hand.

 

"I didn't see it coming," he tells him. "It was already too late."

 

Blake's frown deepens, but he nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe he does, at that.

 

"Could be," Blake responds, "but I personally believe it's never too late." Then he leans even closer, and his eyes are so dark. . . "You saved us. You did that. Do you hear me, Bruce? You saved all of us."

 

"Can't save everyone. . . " he whispers, pulling his hand back and rolling away. He shuts his eyes just as Blake reaches over to take away the wet cloth on his forehead.

 

"You have a fever. 's what happens when a stab wound gets infected."

 

"Wasn't the right one, I guess," Bruce jokes, but it's not funny at all. Those eyes. He'd watched her die, those eyes staring right into him the whole time. Maybe if he'd looked closer earlier, he would have seen her there, would've caught sight of that fire burning inside her.

 

Maybe.

 

"You should rest some more," Blake tells him. "Hopefully, it will break soon, and then you're in for a real treat." He's quiet for a couple seconds, and then he adds, sarcastically, "Your girlfriend's a real peach."

 

"I should," Bruce starts to say, "be so. . . "

 

Lucky.

 

 

***

 

". . . you think this is bad—I knew a guy, got knifed by some gangbangers, ripped right up the side. In the hospital for almost a year. Barely walks now, and his wife left him, but, boy! That disability check sure is swell. Cops are just full of money, right, Miss Kyle?" There's a pause, and then he adds, "Tried to kill himself a couple times."

 

Silence, and even Bruce picks up on Selina's disbelief.

 

"What a lovely story, Officer Blake," she drawls after a moment. "Please, do continue with the heartwarming tales of 'Life on the Force'. Does the next one have shooting in it? Those are my favorites."

 

"Detective," Bruce corrects, interrupting before Blake can no doubt respond with something equally as baiting. He opens his eyes to the sight of the two of them facing off, sitting on opposite sides of the room—Blake by the door, Selina of course stationed at the window. Both are now turned to look at him, and he just blinks.

 

"Well, hello, Sunshine," Selina eventually says, her tone sarcastic as ever, but her warm expression relaxing something in him, some coiled-up part that was dreading finding out this was all a dream, maybe another fever dream. "Decided to stop mooching off me and Officer Chuckles here?"

 

Bruce summons up a smile for her, for them, and it's not much, but at least he's capable of that much now.

 

"It's Detective now, isn't it?" he asks, looking over at Blake and meeting his eyes. "I seem to remember a suit and tie. . . "

 

Blake raises his eyebrows before shifting his position on the chair a little. "Actually," he begins, and when he brings a hand up to rub at his forehead, Bruce thinks he already knows where this story is going, "it's not anything anymore. I, uh– I quit," he finishes, staring at Bruce intently as if challenging him.

 

Bruce doesn't respond, though. He waits, knowing there's more to it than that, knowing Blake likely wants to get it off his chest. Selina, however, has no such compunction in saying her piece.

 

"Well, that didn't last very long, did it? And here I thought I'd at least get the chance to call in a few favors, maybe even some minor blackmail."

 

Blake turns to her with an unimpressed look on his face. "Favors, huh?" he repeats, to which Selina just smirks. "What do I owe you that gets you favors?"

 

"It's not so much what you owe as what you've given away," is her cryptic rejoinder.

 

They eye each other for a moment, looks serious and insinuating, and he knows there are things they're deliberately hiding from him, but he's still too tired to put much effort into pondering what those things might be.

 

"Hey, now," Bruce says instead, quietly, "none of that." Blake is the first to break eye contact, looking over again. Selina takes awhile longer, no doubt relishing her minor victory over The Man, even if Blake no longer really fits that description.

 

"How are you feeling?" Blake asks him, and, honestly, Bruce is amused it's taken this long for one of them to ask.

 

"Better," he responds. Then, he starts taking stock of the situation.

 

Selina's apartment—or former apartment. Property rights in Gotham are probably a nightmare these days.

 

"What day is it?" Bruce then thinks to ask. Selina's just staring at him, that look that's a mixture of anger and fear all over her beautiful face. He turns away and meets Blake's eyes.

 

"Three days since the bomb," Blake offers. "Well," he adds, looking out the window and correcting himself, "closer to four, actually. But, uh, it's been two since we found you."

 

Selina pointedly clears her throat, and Blake just as pointedly rolls his eyes back at her.

 

"Excuse me," Blake amends, "since _she_ found you. I wasn't– we, uh, weren't really looking—before that." He doesn't look away, doesn't duck his head or grimace, but Bruce can still see the guilt there.

 

"You didn't know," he tells him gently, smiling a little to make it go down smoother, but that's apparently not the best tack to take with John Blake, and, really, he should've known better.

 

"You don't have to do that," Blake says, and it's almost a rebuke. It's certainly more than a little confrontational, but Bruce isn't up to playing that game right now or fighting that fight. He's not up to doing much, truthfully.

 

He feels weak and stupid and tired.

 

"What am I on?" he asks.

 

"Just started you on some good ol' Percocet," Selina finally contributes. Bruce shoots her a look, and she shrugs. "Earlier today, as a matter of fact. Couldn't risk anything for awhile. We didn't know if your head was. . . Well, who knows what all you got up to the other day, hmm?"

 

"I hate painkillers," he murmurs, closing his eyes for a second before bringing a hand up to rub at his face. There's the expected stubble but also a bandage on his cheek.

 

His eyes pop open, and Blake says, "From the debris, I think. It's just a cut, not too deep. Shouldn't scar. At least, that's what he said– "

 

Selina loudly coughs again, but it's too late.

 

"Who told you what?" Bruce asks very carefully, and he deliberately keeps the pitch up, but he can't help the cadence. It comes out clipped and heavy, and he's surely not the only one in the room who now suddenly feels like the ground has turned to quicksand. "You brought someone else here—to look at me?"

 

Blake lifts his chin stubbornly and says not a word, and it's a good poker face, but he can guess the truth easily enough. He turns to look at Selina again, and she's actually smiling back at him.

 

"I have all sorts of friends," she says.

 

"Friends who know how to keep their mouths shut, I hope," Bruce responds.

 

"Of course," and it's easy to see the defiance there, but there's more too. There's more to her than defiance and self-interest.

 

After another moment of silence, Blake tosses out, "She's being modest."

 

Bruce raises his eyebrows, but Selina's reaction is priceless.

 

"What?" she says, and it's low and completely startled—barely sounds like her at all.

 

"This friend isn't just a doctor," Blake continues, now smirking his fullest. "He's one of the city's best surgeons. I remember him from when the Commissioner was. . . "

 

Another pointed silence. Gordon.

 

"Now who's being modest?" Selina says, and it's Blake's turn to react.

 

"What am I missing?" Bruce asks.

 

"Nothing," Blake responds, eyes shooting daggers across Bruce to where Selina is all but posing in her satisfaction.

 

These two are like vinegar and oil or—cats and dogs. The thought makes Bruce smile, which in turn causes Blake to do a double-take.

 

"Former Detective Blake here," Selina says, "went all out in order to retain the fine doctor's services, and I do mean _fine_."

 

Blake ducks his head, which is bewildering, until Bruce realizes it's amused embarrassment.

 

"What'd you _do_?"

 

Finally, the kid looks up, and he smirks at Bruce and shares an actual friendly look with Selina before saying, "Well, I sure didn't wave my badge at him."

 

"Just everything else you've got," Selina immediately retorts with a grin.

 

Blake doesn't deny it, merely meets Bruce's eyes with that same sarcastic flippancy he's fast becoming accustomed to. 

 

"She tried her best," Blake offers, nodding at Selina, "but, uh, he wasn't interested."

 

"Doc's gay," she states bluntly. "Between John-boy here batting his lashes at him and being afforded the chance to molest your unconscious bod, I'd say his payment for services was more than fair."

 

Bruce takes a moment to digest that, deciding not to examine it any further. Of course, that's when Blake has to add, "And he was the Commissioner's doctor too. . . " in that insinuating tone, and that sends both Blake and Selina into peals of laughter.

 

"How is he?" Bruce asks, taking the conversational thread and tugging on it. Blake's reaction isn't what he'd expected.

 

"You going to ask about everyone?" he suddenly demands, and that's about as angry as he's seen this guy get. "Maybe your old friends and partners at your company? Maybe the kids down at the shelter and the little old ladies and everyone else, right? Just keep distracting us from the point."

 

Bruce just sighs and blinks, turns his head away to stare up at the ceiling.

 

That doesn't stop Blake, though. Seems not much does.

 

"I get it, okay? You can do something, so you do it, but how can you not _care_?" His voice cracks on the last part. "They all think you're dead. They _know_ you're dead. And Bruce Wayne? He's just some flake who blew his entire fortune and, oh, yeah, helped build a nuclear bomb that nearly leveled the city. They hate him." He waits a beat then says, "And you're just fine with that, aren't you."

 

"You don't get it, or you wouldn't even need to ask," Bruce answers.

 

"Our hero here," comes Selina's voice from Bruce's other side, "likes his privacy. He prefers to remain—anonymous."

 

"But it's over now," Blake insists. "Bane's gone, and so's the bomb. I mean, they took everything from you—not just the money but. . . Don't you want to stand up for yourself, your _family_? People aren't stupid, you know. They deserve to know who really saved them. You lied once. . . "

 

Bruce waits a few seconds, tries to gather what wits the narcotic has left him, finally settling for, "I did what I could. Bruce Wayne—he was never real. He was– he was the mask, the costume. I was always Batman." He opens his eyes and turns his head, and Blake's face is open wide and spilling over with emotion.  He feels as though he could reach out and touch it.

 

"And you didn't even hesitate," Blake adds. "Selina says you didn't waste a second after that lying bitch died—just hooked up the bomb and took off. You just—gave it all up."

 

Bruce turns to his right when the bed suddenly dips beside him. It's Selina sitting down. She doesn't reach out and take one of his hands like she would if this were a dream or a fairytale, but he thinks this is better by far. This is Selina, not some damsel, and he's no knight, never has been.

 

"She betrayed you," Selina says, and her voice is thick, "then literally stabbed you in the back. I should've cut her eyes out of her lying head for what she did."

 

"It was my side actually," Bruce replies, and he's the one to reach out and make contact. He lifts his hand and gently pulls at the ends of that hair. "I'd do it again."

 

"You won't," she declares. "Batman is dead just like Bruce Wayne. And you're here, and in my house, and it's my rules." She takes a deep breath, and he can see the shift as she switches gears, tucks her emotions away. Then she's smirking and leaning closer over him. "Now that I've got you in my bed, you don't think you're getting out so easily, do you?"

 

Bruce feels his lips twitch, and Blake chuckles from his seat a foot away, and Selina keeps her eyes on him.

 

There's passion there and a certain unmistakable wildness. Selina's dangerous, all right, and she can burn with purpose, but she came back, and she stayed and fought. When nothing was in it for her, she showed her true colors.

 

Black isn't for everyone.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It's walkies for awhile, that, and word of mouth. He's got kids from some of the shelters volunteering as messengers. They need to be busy, need to feel a part of things, and it keeps them distracted from the bigger issues.

 

It keeps _him_ distracted.

 

The Commissioner's still the Commissioner, and most people seem to have forgotten they were ever upset with him in the first place. And he's good at this. This crisis management stuff is like his calling card. Commissioner Gordon knows how to think, plan, and then act, but he can adapt and improvise. And he's a good man. Everyone– everyone makes mistakes.

 

He needs to keep busy, needs to work harder at something now that he's on the outside, but he can't help feeling like. . .

 

He hopes it was worth it. From the other end of things, the leaving side of it, he really hopes it was worth it to him. Nobody's ever going to know if he keeps his mouth shut, which he will. No one will ever know. . .

 

He's actually sitting down for the first time in more than a day when she just comes walking up—no slinking or strutting. Doesn't even call any attention to herself, though it wouldn't be hard for her to do so. She's one of those girls. He learned to just stay away from 'em, after getting burned one time too many.

 

"Miss Kyle," he says, as she takes the seat across from him at the table, "fancy meeting you here."

 

No bullshit whatsoever. She immediately skips to the point, and color him surprised because she's even civil about it.

 

"We've got a problem, and he's currently thrashing around in my bed with a fever of 103."

 

John's pretty sure he's hallucinating from sleep deprivation and sheer stress for the better part of five minutes, while Selina Kyle, thief and con artist extraordinaire, keeps up her quiet revelation.

 

"I'm not exactly equipped to handle this kind of thing," she says, attempting to wrap up her spiel in a nice little bow. "You're the professional Good Guy. This is your area."

 

He shakes his head a little and takes a sip of coffee to clear it. He ends up gulping the rest of it down and can't help but pull a face when he finds grounds crunching between his teeth. Coffee's coffee, though, and at this point anything even resembling it is welcome.

 

"So, essentially, you're dumping the savior of Gotham on me and bailing, is that it?" He looks up, and she is definitely pissed. Good. She might think she's doing the right thing here, but deep down she knows it's the coward's way out. She knows—who he is, what he's done. There's a responsibility that comes with that knowledge.

 

"I'm getting him the help he needs," she growls out, eyes narrowed into belligerent little slits, but he sees guilt there. Can't shit a shitter.

 

"Yeah," John huffs out after a few strained seconds, "sure you are. Might even still be a reward out for him too. . . "

 

"How dare you?!" Her hand comes down hard on the tabletop, but there's no one around to rubberneck. The place is empty because it's the middle of the night just two days after the near-apocalypse. Last place anyone's going to be right now is a crappy diner in Oldtown, drinking crappy coffee and wolfing down stale pie.

 

"I just call 'em like I see 'em, Miss Kyle," he responds, and his voice comes out hard and brittle, but, damn it, this isn't another fucking excuse for her to shuffle the blame off onto someone else. This isn't every other bad thing in her shitty life, and it's not just one more reason why she's justified in–

 

He takes a deep breath and shifts back farther in his seat, and she takes it for what it is and doesn't bail.  
  


"You've gotta know the right kind of people," she eventually says, seemingly intently studying the surface of the table.

 

"People who can't be bought?" he scoffs, and her head darts up. "That's a stiff order in this town, especially these days."

 

"No," she argues, "I mean you, _you_ , Mister Officer Blake Sir At Your Service Ma'am. You have to know the right people for this—kind of thing, right?" She breathes in twice, and her eyes go a bit distant, and then she says, "I can get someone in there who knows how to sew him up. That's easy." Then, her eyes snap onto John's. "He's the problem here. I mentioned the fever."

 

"You did," he agrees, now thinking he understands what she's getting at. "Temperature that high, people are confused. Their brains aren't firing right. . .  " He trails off, and she obligingly nods emphatically.

 

"He needs help," she declares, "and I'm good, but I'm not that good. No one is that good, not by themselves." They stare at each other for another brief moment, and then she leans even closer across the table and grinds out in a low voice, "I'm afraid to leave him alone. He's already stumbled out twice, and he's fucking heavy."

 

"He lash out at all?" John asks before he can think how it will come across.

 

But, she just quirks an eyebrow at him and smirks, and that could mean anything.

 

"Well, not since I tied him to the headboard."

 

Or it could mean that.

 

"Jesus," he mutters, reaching for the cup of coffee again before remembering too late that he already drank it all. He looks around for the waitress, but she must be in back, and he's not that desperate for more caffeine. Just had a nice wake-up call in the form of Selina Kyle. Christ, he's not going to sleep for at least a week at this rate.

 

"So are you in or not?" said wake-up call demands. "Because if you're not, then I think I need to go pay the Commissioner a visit and tell him there's a certain someon– "

 

"I'll do it," he interjects.

 

Like there was ever any doubt.

 

First order of business is actually assessing the situation. He tells Selina it's so they can get the right kind of medic, but they both know it's more than that.

 

And, yeah, he's a real mess.

 

Bats are a common topic and fire too. When he tries to get a look at the stab wound Selina tells him is there, Wayne tries to twist away and then groans in pain. Sure enough, she's got him so his wrists are wrapped up with some kind of smooth rope, which is then knotted around parts of the headboard. It's definitely one of the most surreal moments in his life.

 

"I know a guy," John then volunteers. Bruce Wayne has his eyes open at that point, but there doesn't seem to be anybody home, and Selina Kyle is standing just behind John, close enough that he can feel the heat coming off her. "He's good."

 

"Good," she echoes quietly, and he can't tell if she's questioning the assessment or agreeing with him. "Where do we find him?"

 

***

 

The hospitals hadn't been able to stay open during what's now known simply as The Occupation. Clinics around the city had been available but not in the usual spots, as doing the expected and familiar was always a bad idea during that period. Now, though, some of the better clinics are in use again, the ones with the higher tech and better security. The hospitals, however—it will be awhile before the city gets back to a place where there's enough staff to run one of those huge places. The necessary electricity alone is unfeasible for the foreseeable future.

 

But, John knows this city. He knows it better now than he ever had, probably better than almost anyone else, and he knows where to find what's needed.

 

Elliot's a decent enough guy, and he's an extraordinary doctor. Sure, John's pretty sure the guy is screwed up based on just the few brief conversations they've had together over the last 5 months, but, honestly, who living in Gotham right now isn't screwed up? John himself is a mess, pretty much always has been, and so was every friend he ever had, whether punk or cop. The savior of the city is basically the poster boy for mental illness and untreated trauma.

 

So, John's all prepared to go back out and track down Dr. Elliot at one of the small-time clinics, when Selina decides it's a two-person job. John of course disagrees, and then they proceed to argue about it for ten minutes, while Bruce continues sweating and muttering and generally just being incredibly ill.

 

It's when he screams and thrashes around on the bed that they both stop.

 

"God," John can't help but say, looking at the guy, this man who saved them all, just be torn apart by his demons. Selina leaves the room, coming back a moment later with a wet cloth and a couple of big pills. The former, she clearly intends to place on Bruce's forehead. The latter, John immediately questions.

 

"What are those?" he asks.

 

"Antibiotics," she answers, and it's a little bitter, but in the context of where the two of them stand in their dealings together, he can admit it's also pretty restrained. "I don't know if they're any good, but it can't hurt, right?" Then, she carefully walks over to the bed and, from how it looks where John is standing, proceeds to hypnotize Bruce into calming the fuck down, whereupon she sets the cloth on his forehead, and he swallows the pills. It's some heavy mojo. There's no other explanation for it.

 

Must be the hair—or the eyes. He'd say it was the lipstick and perfume and cleavage, but none of that is in evidence today. Even seductresses take days off, it seems.

 

But, she's good with him—gentle but not condescending. There's no cooing or fake reassurances, and John thinks Bruce of any of them would be the first to see through something like that. No, instead, it's just some quiet and calm, and the screaming and twisting stops, and Bruce looks to have dazed off again. His eyes are still open, as they often are, which is unsettling and vaguely creepy to be sure, but he's silent and still. Seems an improvement anyway. All the movement can't be good for him with that stab wound, plus all the other injuries.

 

"I still think someone needs to stay with him," John says quietly, and he's really not trying to jumpstart the fight again, but he just can't help it. "I mean, I'm fine on my own, and he's—clearly not."

 

"I can't sit here and do nothing," she bites out, and John looks anxiously at Bruce, who, sure enough, is reacting to Selina's tone by frowning and pursing his lips together.

 

"You're not," John argues. "You're taking care of him, helping him. Me going out is my way of helping," he adds, thinking maybe this is part of a bigger issue of hers. "If you knew where Tom Elliot was or how to find him, then you'd be the one going out into the freezing streets. But, you're not, so you aren't."

 

She's silent for a bit then states, as though for the record, "I hate this. I'm just not cut out for it." She's sitting on the bed, though, staring at Bruce with some intense expression on her face John doesn't want to look too closely at. He's got a pretty good idea what emotion's behind that look.

 

"Neither am I," he instead responds, "but we do what we have to."

 

And of course she doesn't turn to look at him with those great big eyes, and they don't share some profound understanding of themselves and the universe, but it's nevertheless all good. Selina just nods, reaches out and lightly sets a hand on Bruce's throat, and with the other she adjusts the damp cloth on his forehead.

 

"Hurry back," is what she sends him off with, and John leaves a dim room filled with the smell of blood and pain and guilt, and he does just that. He wastes no time hunting down Thomas Elliot.

 

And, by God, he's got a pretty good idea why that is and knows he's fucked.

 

***

 

Doc's good like John knew he was, having seen him treat the Commissioner and the people of the city who'd needed him, but—guy's also really weird and creepy.

 

John gets him to the apartment, but it's almost a close call with regard to how much he's forced to reveal about the potential patient. Elliot gets a certain look in his eye when he's told it's someone important, and John doesn't like that look. It's a spark, a signal fire of something else, and he's seen it before. The boys he grew up with, a lot of them had that spark. He thinks he himself had it, if he doesn't still, and Bruce Wayne burns with it.

 

So, John plays practically every card he can think of, and the one that finally works is one from Selina's deck. It would be a girl's play if he hadn't used it before, but he has, so it's just another tool in his belt, maybe a little rusty but certainly not unfamiliar. He flirts and flatters and stands closer than he normally would, and Elliot seems almost amused by the act, but he reciprocates, and in the end he leaves the clinic and follows John out into the cold and down into Oldtown and up Selina's crappy stairs and finally into the equally crappy apartment itself.

 

It's almost sad when Selina herself tries to con the guy into what John assumes would be giving better treatment to Bruce because Elliot is having none of it. He all but ignores her, and that's just another mark in the 'Lose' column for the good doctor. John can't stand misogynists.

 

"How long has he been like this?" was practically the first thing out of the guy's mouth, and since then it's been a steady stream of questions interspersed with the occasional cryptic noise like, "Hmm," or, "Oooh."

 

John answers what he can, mentally rolling his eyes at the back of the doc's head when he's forced to repeat something Selina says because Elliot doesn't even acknowledge her presence most of the time. He'd normally do worse than roll his eyes, but they need this guy. Sometimes, he thinks, looking over at Selina and then at where Bruce is being prodded and poked and stitched up and injected, a person's just got to suffer to do the right thing.

 

"Keep him as hydrated as possible," Elliot tells him, as he bundles himself up in preparation to go back outside, "and change the dressings often, and the fever should break soon. If not within, say, the next five hours, come get me." His eyes are steady as they lock on John, and he has to repress a shudder.

 

Lord, there is definitely something wrong with Thomas Elliot.

 

"Yeah," John manages to say, clearing his throat a little, "we'll definitely do that." And he can't resist a jab at Elliot for Selina's sake by emphasizing 'we'. She's currently hovering in the bedroom doorway, her face blank but her body language telling. It's a good thing the doc's leaving, or else he'd probably wind up with a sharp object embedded somewhere painful.

 

"Good," Elliot replies, and then he's out the door and jogging down the stairs.

 

John says a mental good riddance, thankful that's over at least for now. Now, they just have to worry about that fever Bruce has because if it doesn't break soon—they'll be paying a return visit to Dr. Elliot of the Creepy Bedside Manner.

 

John shuts and locks Selina's front door then turns around to see she's gone back into the bedroom proper. He follows, only to spot her over by the window, lounging casually sideways in the chair there like she hasn't a care in the world. It's an act, though, because her hair's a mess, and there are deep bags under her eyes from too much worry and not enough sleep.

 

Boy, what a pair the two of them must make. He can't imagine he's any better, and imagining is about as far as he wants to go down that path for awhile. He probably looks like a corpse right now.

 

That makes him think of death and dead bodies, and he looks over at Bruce quickly, reassuring himself that the man's still there—alive, breathing, here and safe.

 

"You have shitty taste in men," Selina says from her perch, and John actually smiles and relaxes a little. He takes the chair that's near the bedroom door and pulls it closer to where Bruce is lying.

 

"Yeah, but what can you do?" he replies, getting a smile in return for his trouble.

 

At least they're not fighting anymore. It's a start.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

She'd expected boring—taking care of someone this closely, stuck in the same room for days at a time. Yeah, that sounded boring to her, and maybe it is a little, on the surface, but that's not really what's going on. It's actually pretty fascinating at times, if in a decidedly morbid way.

 

Fact is, she could have sewn him up herself and, from the brief look she'd gotten while trying to shuck him from the armor earlier, done a better job of it than some he's had in the past. She's good with her hands, after all.

 

She also could have bummed him off on quite a few people, and they would have taken care of him like this but probably in better style and with more resources at their disposal. The Commissioner would have, for one, would almost certainly still take him in, and the President or CEO or whatever he is of Wayne Enterprises too, if there still is a Wayne Enterprises after everything they did to it—did to him. But, she didn't have to keep him here. She doesn't have to.

 

She barely contemplates giving him up, though. It's maybe a few seconds' worth, and then she's trying as gently as possible to herd and drag him into the bedroom, where it's not as dilapidated and the looting isn't quite as obvious. Then, she's tracking down that cop he'd taken such a shine to, that kid—who likely isn't really a kid but still looks like one and believes like one, so what's the difference in the end?

 

It's something short and curt, much like the kid himself—Drake or Bait or Shake n' Bake, something like that. Sure enough, the kids know him, tell her where to look. He lives in Oldtown or is at least holed up here for now, which is more than passing strange. Do-gooder types usually stick to Midtown or above. Only the real people can brave this part of the city, so maybe Officer Cake or Date or Skate isn't like his brothers in blue.

 

Turns out, yeah, the cop is a jerk, but he cares, and he knows his stuff. And, it's not for her that she's doing this. It's for _him_ , and she can put up with being mocked and teased and ignored by arrogant, self-righteous dicks if it means he gets what he needs without sacrificing more of himself. She can do that, and she does—maybe not without comment, but that's just a given. A girl isn't going to take that kind of treatment lying down, not here, not in this town.

 

The doc, on the other hand, is the kind of man the other two in the room are not. He's pretty much everything she hates about the other sex, all distilled down into some thick viscous syrup of disdain. He thinks he has all the authority even after five months of Occupation, and if it's the last thing she does, someday she'll prove him wrong right to his haughty handsome face.

 

Oh, the things she does for him. She's almost a different person.

 

If she'd known, though, she would've done this for him at any time. She would for Holly or the kids or the other girls. She has pride but not at others' expense, at least not others like her or worse. If she'd known about him, had known him, she wouldn't've taken him there that night. She would not have done that, and of that, she is certain. Her bones ache with that knowledge.

 

But, guilt and regret are only useful when turned towards the right reasons and the right people. She can't ever change what happened, can't even really make it up to him, much as she'd like to, but she can make sure it doesn't happen again. She learns from her mistakes and from others'. She'll never underestimate him again; that's for sure.

 

And, she'll never overestimate him, either. He can do a lot, more than anyone she's ever known or heard of, but he's not invincible or un– unbreakable.

 

On the third day, she leaves him alone with the cop, Officer John _Blake_ of the Big Ol' Doe Eyes, while she goes out for supplies. It's her neighborhood, and they're both itching for some distance between 'em. Blake's not too bad, but she's used to living alone, and he seems the same way. It really is a tiny apartment.

 

She comes back with lots of canned crap and more bandages and some prescriptions she'd taken from a looted pharmacy, only to catch the tail-end of the two of them talking. And, yeah, so she's a little jealous but just until she goes into the bedroom and sees how Blake is sitting—up close to the bed and angled so his body's fully facing Bruce. Then, at that point, she's amused because now there are two of them.

 

Blake is just as screwed up about Bruce Wayne as she is. It's right there in his face every time she looks at him afterward. It's in his voice, how he talks about him. It's easiest to see in the body language, of course, because most people don't know for shit how to control themselves in that regard.

 

It makes things a little more difficult, mostly on his end, unsurprisingly. He seems to have caught on that she knows, but he's not dealing with it very well, and she just loves making him lose his cool. He's obviously from around here somehow, has that look and chip on his shoulder they all do, but maybe he's been gone too long or he never truly fit in because his cold exterior is just too easy for her to crack.

 

It's great fun, though. He's not as bad as she'd previously thought, not like that doctor friend of his or the many thugs around here who act like they're gentlemen. Blake's okay. She's right about him being a kid still and yet wrong too. He's cynical as hell but optimistic in weird ways. He's nonjudgmental towards certain people, herself among them, oddly enough, but when it comes to others, he wastes no time in making his feelings known.

 

Kid doesn't like the Commissioner too much, and for a cop that's quite strange. Most of them seem to downright worship the guy, and she can admit she sees why. Not Blake, though. It's just one of many topics they tacitly agree to avoid—like The Occupation itself, their respective pasts, and Bruce. They don't talk about Bruce, or Batman, not while they're in the same room with him and not when they're without, either. It would be rude and inappropriate.

 

So, they both just hang around and snark at each other, eat some canned vegetables and make fun of people, mostly celebrities and politicians, take turns with the bandages and the wet rags and sleeping on her now even crappier couch, and the whole time they're waiting, waiting, waiting. . .

 

Then, he's just suddenly there. John's been telling stories, horrible, out-of-context stories she's almost certain he's not making up or exaggerating, and when she gives her usual comeback on the latest one, Bruce's voice interrupts her.

 

He sounds like shit, and he looks it too, but she's—relieved, happy, frustrated, pissed off, and, goddamn it, more than a little attracted. Bruce Wayne, even as messed up and damaged as he is, and that's quite a bit on both counts, is still a hell of a guy. He's a good-looking fella.

 

He's not up to much, though. That's plain right from the start. In amongst the bottles she'd taken from the pharmacy was some Percocet, and they'd slipped him a couple earlier in the day. It's kind of funny to watch him slur his words a little and look around with dilated pupils and even smile a tiny goofy smile, but he's definitely hurting, and the fever's just now broken, and it's ultimately frustrating that his first concern is still the city.

 

Of course, Blake calls him on it, and she's not surprised he does, though it is somewhat a case of the pot reaming out the kettle for being black and taking matters into its own spout. She sits back and watches for awhile, and it's better than any TV show because she knows the players. She knows pretty much what Bruce will say to all this, and she knows John's just going to keep on griping till he's too frustrated to form a coherent argument anymore. She knows these guys.

 

Bruce tries to play it off, all the injuries and suffering, as just some minor incident, and that's when she herself gets pissed enough to step in.

 

He's strange when it comes to physical contact. It's hard not to wonder and theorize what his life's been like, since apparently the whole world's been duped with regard to Bruce Wayne's personal history and personality, but what Selina keeps coming back to is how he reaches out without ever moving a muscle. When he's just looking at her, it feels like they're touching, and it's like being swallowed up when they actually do make contact. He's still hot from the fever and a little grimy, but his eyes, even hazy and blown from the drug as they are, are wonderful to see because they're open and aware and not harsh or gloomy.

 

Well, they're maybe a little gloomy, but she's pretty sure that's just Bruce.

 

John mentions what she'd told him about that Tate woman, about how Batman had reacted and simply taken off with the bomb—about how casual and almost nonchalant he'd been about the whole thing. Bruce then looks to her again, and she can't stand it. She just can't abide him thinking it's his fault, that he failed somehow, and that's clearly what's going through his head. She can see it, the little wheels sluggishly turning and awkwardly grinding together to form some skewed version of the truth that will fit into the specifications of his martyr complex.

 

"She betrayed you," she tells him, "then literally stabbed you in the back." She waits a second or two in the hopes that will sink in, and then adds, "I should've cut her eyes out of her lying head for what she did."

 

"It was my side actually," Bruce quips, and it's maddening how steady and calm he appears, but then he lifts up his hand and gently pulls at the ends of her hair, and he's got to be feeling something to reach out like that. He's not one for casual touching. That much she knows already.

 

Of course, then he ruins it by saying, "I'd do it again."

 

"You won't," she states clearly. "Batman is dead just like Bruce Wayne." He blinks at that, and she can hear John shift in his seat, but they're all going to have to be honest to the point of blunt if they're to get through this. "And you're here, and in my house, and it's my rules."

 

Bruce is a little tense again, his mouth slowly sliding down into a frown, so she takes a deep breath and pushes aside her feelings for the moment. Instead, she leans closer to him, hovers over him even, and smiles, saying lowly, "Now that I've got you in my bed, you don't think you're getting out so easily, do you?" She even bats her eyelashes for good measure.

 

John is clearly getting a kick out of the show, as he chuckles, but Selina keeps her eyes on Bruce's just to make sure he understands what she's saying too.

 

And eventually the corners of his mouth curl upwards again, and by now she knows that's his version of a smile. But, it doesn't mean he's been persuaded. She knows better than that.

 

Not yet, anyway. Between her and John, they'll likely wear him down eventually. Her money's on John. That kid's persistent.

 

***

 

Bathroom detail, as they'd dubbed it, is a hell of a lot easier now that Bruce is lucid. She'd mostly left it to John to handle, often quite literally _handle_ , that aspect of things, but she'd still had a turn here and there getting everything taken care of. She might've felt guiltier if the circumstances were different, but they aren't, as John would say, so she doesn't.

 

The stitches are what they need to look out for, so full-body showering and bathing is out of the picture for awhile yet—another two weeks probably. For now, it's sponge baths, or it was when Bruce was off on his fever flight. Today, it's him and John at the sink in the kitchen, with the latter bracing up the former as he drags a washcloth over all the places he can reach. John makes a good nurse. He's thorough and just detached enough that any awkwardness is kept to a minimum. That's mostly why Selina's left it to him to see to Bruce in that regard. She wouldn't've been able to resist needling him a bit, and the guy probably doesn't need or want that right now.

 

But, Bruce seems okay with John. "Back to mandi-style," he says at one point, but other than a raised eyebrow, John doesn't remark upon it. Plenty of time for questions later is what Selina thinks, from her perch just around the partition, once everything's calmed down and they're all in a better place.

 

There will be time to get to know each other later. There will be a later. There is a later, now. He's here, and he's alive, making little cracks about himself and the state of things that aren't funny except in a dark and vaguely hurtful way, and isn't that just what someone would expect from the man who is Batman? Isn't that the kind of person who'd do what he's done? Not Bruce Wayne, the rich recluse who nobody sees anymore—that guy wouldn't be like this man here in her kitchen. Or would he? The one Selina had first met was that way, all contained and yet spilling over with shadows and regret.

 

That was the real man, though, the one she'd unsympathetically robbed and teased and gotten the better of. The next Bruce Wayne, the one who'd shown up at the gala, had been different, just a little, just somewhat, but it was noticeable. And Batman was even more dissimilar from those other two men, so much so that she wouldn't have put it together herself. She wouldn't've known, if she hadn't stayed.

 

John says something then about Bruce's back, just some passing remark, and Selina has to leave. She calls out that she's going for a supply run. "Be back in a jiffy!" she says, and it's a good excuse, so she takes her gear and heads out, but she's pretty sure they all know she was lying. It wasn't her best effort.

 

It's just awful, feeling like this, and he's okay or will be again to some extent soon, but she's responsible for so much of what's happened, and it's never going to go away. The 'What If' game is something she learned a long time ago not to play, but she hasn't been able to help it for awhile. It used to be, she'd wonder where they'd all be if she hadn't led Batman to Bane or if she hadn't left him there. The last couple days, though, since he's been under her and John's care, she's thought about earlier than that. What if she hadn't taken that job and stolen his prints? Daggett and his man would have just hired someone else, but would that person be as good as she is? Would they have gotten the upper hand with Bruce—not Bruce Wayne, not even Batman, just Bruce?

 

She'd like to think it would have turned out the same, no matter who the thief was, but when she's honest with herself—she knows it doesn't matter. She was the thief, and she helped make this all possible, and she did lead him down into the sewers, and she left him there. He said it didn't matter to him, that he still had hope for her, but that just makes it worse. 'Robin Hood,' he'd tossed out at that gala, and she'd liked to think of herself that way a little back then. She helped out the people who needed it and by doing so had helped herself too. What was wrong with that?

 

But, in helping herself this last time, this job to end all jobs so she could go straight and never have to worry about this shithole of a town again, she'd inadvertently hurt someone who didn't have more, someone who just had different. His holes were deeper, and maybe there weren't as many of them, but they were just as dark as hers or anyone else's living in Oldtown and the Narrows—maybe even darker. She'd stood on his shoulders and pushed off, and he'd fallen and then clawed his way back up again.

 

So, really, the least she could do now was reach down a hand, and if he smiled at her in gratitude for it—well, she knows the truth.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He can just barely manage to brush his teeth and shave on his own and is currently seated at the small kitchen table, deriving no small amount of satisfaction out of doing the second, when, seemingly apropos of nothing, Selina loudly asks the room at large, "What now?"

 

"Clean up?" John offers blithely from his seat on the couch, and to the less observant eye it might seem like he's fully occupied with whatever's in the folder he's flipping through, but Bruce knows better. John's good, but he's not that good. They all know he's not talking about the breakfast dishes or the apartment itself.

 

Selina's good too, clever and quick, but certain things remain out of her depth—Bruce himself among them.

 

"No," he says to her definitively, not intending it to come out sounding as stern as it does, but he figures it's good to nip this line of questioning in the bud, nonetheless.

 

"You don't even know what I was going to say," Selina retorts, and her tone is light and teasing. But, again, something's off, and Bruce isn't buying it. He thinks it's her eyes. They're awfully serious for just another jibe about the worsening state of the one-bedroom apartment currently in its sixth day of housing three people.

 

"No," he repeats, quieter this time but just as firm, and that's when the smile on her face wavers and eventually slides off.

 

"We have to talk about it sometime," she argues. "You can't stay hidden away here forever." And that's definitely a jab at those eight years he'd–

 

"Not even that butler of yours. . .  ?" John abruptly chimes in with, and someday Bruce will not be caught off guard by how much this guy, this kid, really, understands.

 

"Alfred?" Bruce answers before he can think better of it, his voice strangely muted even to his own ears.

 

"That's the one," John confirms, lifting and turning his head to meet Bruce's eyes, then stretching out an arm along the back of Selina's couch."Not even him?"

 

"He's more than just the hired help, isn't he?" says Selina, and Bruce sighs and lowers the razor still in his hand down to the little bowl of cooling water resting on the table.

 

"He is," Bruce confirms a moment later, answering Selina. He then returns John's look and says, "He's also gone," and that should take care of the whole matter, shouldn't it?

 

Bruce is stubborn enough to believe, or to think he believes, that that's the end of the conversation, so he lifts up the razor once more, managing two more careful swipes along his right cheek before–

 

"Well, good," Selina says, ruining his delusion completely with just two words. "I can't imagine being trapped in this town would've been pleasant," she adds, "not with you out of the picture."

 

Is that supposed to make him feel guilty? Bruce looks up from the tiny mirror on the table, and it's probably ridiculous the picture he makes right now, scowling in a bathrobe with shaving cream all over the lower half of his face, but, even so, he meets Selina's pointed stare with no hesitation. No one is smiling now.

 

"He left before, didn't he—before The Occupation?" John interjects, and Bruce does not growl in frustration. He just drops the razor loudly into the water dish and carefully settles back into his chair.

 

And he doesn't say a goddamn word.

 

It's Blake, the cop, the policeman, the man who won't back down, who's asking now. That guy is frankly starting to get on Bruce's nerves. He much prefers John, who's not such a hard-ass little automaton in the government machine. At least John knows when to take a hint.

 

He cannot believe they are actually having this conversation. What business is it of theirs?

 

"John. . . " Selina says quietly, so quietly it's almost a whisper and is definitely a warning.

 

Blake seems to ignore her, keeps right on staring at Bruce, and Bruce keeps right on staring back.

 

"I think I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Bruce finally says, and he's lying, but it won't matter. It's just to get them off this track. It's only so he can go on and not have to rehash every single thing with two people who are, for some reason, both hung up on this aspect of his life. Of all the questions he'd been preparing himself for, his standing with Alfred is not one of them.

 

Blake pulls a face at Bruce's words, and he realizes it was an unintentional pun and grimaces back.

 

"Bridges," John mutters, smiling a little sad smile. But, then he's back to Cop-face, saying, "Don't think we don't know what you're trying to do, though."

 

They apparently both know exactly what he's trying to do. How strange, and even stranger is them not playing along. It's so much more difficult this way, always pushing and challenging. Who does that anymore? "I'm sure I don't have any idea what you're implying," Bruce finally offers.

 

"Hey," Selina interjects, her voice still oddly quiet and almost chiding, "we're not stupid."

 

"I don't need to be lectured on my responsibilities, thanks," Bruce says, turning his head to look at her.

 

"No, apparently you do," she snaps back, "because right now you're being a jerk, and I– "

 

"He doesn't even want to know! It doesn't matter, okay?" And that is not what he'd meant to say. He waits a few seconds, takes a couple deep breaths then says, "You're assuming too much. Leave it alone."

 

Silence. There is heavy silence, where none of them even move, for what seems like a longer span of time than it probably is.

 

"What happened?" Selina asks, and it's slow and careful but no longer quiet. She's not cowed.

 

Bruce just keeps his eyes down, pins them on the razor resting at the edges of the dish of water and doesn't think of much of anything at all.

 

"I'm just trying to– look," John says, interrupting awkwardly and too loud like they'd been having a completely different conversation, "you need to see this from both sides, Bruce. It's not just about you."

 

"You mean you two, right—you and Selina?" That gets a nod from John and another blank face from Selina, and this whole situation is just surreal. Honestly, when was the last time he'd had to explain himself to anyone?

 

He doesn't like having to now, feels resentful that they're demanding it from him, like his reasons and experiences aren't his own, like when he came here he somehow automatically gave over his right to privacy.

 

"Look, I get that this affects you," Bruce says, "but—this is my life. I'll live it how I damn well please, and if that means Bruce Wayne dies, then so be it." He can't help raising his eyebrows challengingly at the end, even if it is childish, but he feels like shit, and they're here picking at him, and it'd been such a pleasant start to the day that they'd ruined.

 

More silence. You'd think one of them at least would get the idea that they're not going to win this argument. Maybe they're used to being stubborn, but he's not used to not getting his way.

 

Then Selina says, "Third time's the charm," and it's not just Bruce who's caught off-guard.

 

"What?" he and John say at the same time, and it's incredibly irritating, but of course Selina finds it hilarious.

 

She grins, continuing with, "Haven't you been declared dead, like, three times already?"

 

John makes another huffing sound, but when Bruce looks over at him he can't tell if it was amusement or something else. John's still got that look on his face.

 

" . . . it was only once," Bruce finally corrects. Then, he thinks about it for a moment and adds, "Well, now it's twice, I guess."

 

"I don't know," and that's definitely amusement in John's voice, no doubt about it, "I think if you hide out in your mansion for eight years, you're getting pretty close to legally dead territory." And by the end, John's full-out grinning.

 

They're making fun of him. They're teasing him about something that used to be– that _used to be_ very personal and very painful.

 

He decides it's the pain pills affecting him.

 

"Whatever happened to taking it easy on an invalid?" he wonders aloud.

 

"What are you talking about?" Selina responds, and she finally appears to relax enough to sit down, moving over to the couch and resting her weight against the arm nearest John. "This _is_ taking it easy. Who else would take such good care of you—right, John?"

 

Bruce looks at her incredulously and can see John scowling too, but he's not sure he quite gets the whole joke she's making. It's clearly mostly at John's expense based on the knowing look Selina's giving him, and maybe it's to do with the former detective's actions during The Occupation, or maybe it's something else entirely. The truth is, Bruce is still too out of it and feels like his footing is still too unsteady with these two. They obviously already have some kind of bond, and he's not up to challenging that.

 

"I just don't see," John says, as determined and persistent as ever, "how you can completely cut ties with the people you've known the longest." He pauses, studying Bruce closely for a few seconds before saying in a slightly hushed voice, "That's it, isn't it? It's _because_ of that. We," and here he gestures towards Selina, "barely know you at all. You came here for a reason—specifically here, this apartment, not anywhere else. . . "

 

"You're planning on leaving for good," Selina agrees.

 

"Batman's dead," Bruce says. "You said it yourself." He waits a moment then adds, "And so is Bruce Wayne, and that's the way it should be."

 

"But, _you're_ not dead," Selina says emphatically, standing back up again and this time coming closer to him at the table. "The Commissioner, that guy who ran your company—fine, they don't know you. Who cares? Maybe it's better to break ties and leave. But, surely your guardian deserves to know." Bruce opens his mouth to interrupt in shock, but she just cuts a hand through the air, preventing him. "So you had a falling-out," she says, completely missing the point of what he'd been about to say regarding invasions into his privacy. "It happens. He's still important to you. Don't even think about denying it. I can see it all over your face. Just how you speak about him, or don't—that says it all. You care; you love him; and you're hurt and on freakin' pain pills, and, believe me when I tell you this: you're not thinking clearly."

 

"You mentioned him," John suddenly says, "when you were– when the fever was still high. You asked about him, needed to know he was safe, if he'd made it out of the city."

 

Bruce isn't looking at either of them, and he feels nothing so much as ganged up on, and that's when some childish, uncharitable, and distinctly mistrustful part of him thinks to wonder if maybe this isn't all some ruse or conspiracy, that maybe Selina and John, a cat burglar who's already robbed and betrayed him once and a maybe not-so-former _cop_ whose motives are still questionable, aren't really looking out for his best interests after all. Maybe they aren't his friends. Maybe they aren't what they seem.

 

It makes him sick, thinking this, but once it's occurred to him, he can't seem to stop. All the worst-case scenarios spin out in his head, and he keeps coming back to Miranda. Then, it's hard to breathe, and he can't see straight, and it's only when Blake declares, "So, uh, we'll revisit this later. . . " in a startled voice that Bruce realizes he actually has tears in his eyes.

 

It's not for Alfred, though, or the woman who was not Miranda Tate, that he feels this overwhelming sadness and regret. It's for himself, for Bruce, for this person and this thing he has become—suspicious of all, reliant on none.

 

There's no room for anyone else. There never truly was after what happened, and now he's afraid there never will be.

 

Selina and John are both silent, maybe dumbstruck by the fact that there are tears and no jokes, or maybe they've just finally run out of things to say.

 

Then, Selina nods firmly, eyeing Bruce with a strange look on her face, and pronounces, "You bet your cute little butt we will. I'm not idly sitting by while some dumbass just throws his life away—again."

 

Bruce actually chuckles at that, just because he can tell neither one expects it, and it's actually funny to him. Eventually Selina cracks a smile, and her posture relaxes again. It's a strained smile, but he can see she's trying. He meets her eyes, and for a moment they're just staring at each other, but then John huffs another laugh and gets to his feet.

 

"I think that's my cue," he says, stretching briefly before moving as if to leave the room. Bruce raises his eyebrows, confused, and turns his head to look at John. "I should get back out there," John then adds unnecessarily, and Bruce fast comes to the conclusion that what he's seeing is John Blake ill at ease. Will wonders never cease?

 

"It's your funeral," is what Selina chooses to say.

 

Bruce doesn't know whether she's being honest or exaggerating, and it doesn't seem to matter. The comment's clearly meant to cut John, and, oddly enough, it seems to work.

 

His expression closes off, and he loses what color and animation he normally has in his face, which, it being John, isn't all that much to begin with. He's apparently a pretty subdued kind of guy.

 

That brings to mind someone else subdued and sarcastic and always challenging, and he misses him all over again, the tentative peace he'd started to feel just now evaporating.

 

But, it wouldn't be right. It's not fair to either of them. Alfred had made his position clear, and so had Bruce, and that should be the end of it. Why mess with the period fate has so conveniently put at the end of his sentence? Why drag it out? Things will never be the same again. They'll never get back to a good place together, not after everything.

 

When he was younger, still too young to do anything but not a kid anymore, he'd get trapped inside these cycles of self-pity and guilt, and he'd long to cry out for help like other kids did—sloppily cut at his wrists in a place somebody would find him, make noise about how he wished he could join his parents, do stupid things like get in accidents and fights. He couldn't, though. He never did. He never said a word, never picked a fight, never did anything outrageous.

 

But, all the same, Alfred still seemed to know. There was never any therapy, never counselors after those first few times directly following the– the shooting. There was never a lot of hugging or deep talks between them, either, never anything so blatant, but Alfred was _there_. He'd always known that. If he ever needed anything, he'd known where to go.

 

Now, that's gone. Alfred is—gone. He left, and maybe it was for the best and made sense and was for all the right reasons, but there isn't any coming back from something like that. Bruce knows how the man feels now, knows what he did and why and what he longs for, and that's a severing of ties, an escape. He still cares for Bruce, would again if given the chance, but where Alfred had always been there for Bruce, maybe Bruce now owes it to him—to not be there, to not place those kinds of demands on him.

 

"Stay," he says, looking up and meeting John's startled eyes across the room. Bruce realizes he's put a hand on the table, palm up, and he wishes he didn't know what he'd meant by that, but he does. He knows what he's saying, and he knows what he wants.

 

And maybe he can have it. Maybe this time, it can work out. . .

 

The expression on John's face says he knows what's being offered too, but there's something stubborn and defiant in Blake that means he'll likely try to shrug it off or play it down. It's out there, though, for all of them to see.

 

"He's right," comes Selina's voice, "you shouldn't go," and Bruce wants to smile at that, smile just a little at how she moves to stand in John's way, at how she meets Bruce's eyes over John's shoulder—but he doesn't.

 

Instead, he says, "I need you to do a favor for me," and he watches as John's face goes briefly suspicious, before it slides into a poorly-concealed version of eager.

 

"Yeah," he asks, opting for cautious, "and what's that—give you a haircut, trim your nails?"

 

Bruce does smile then. He smiles and says, "No, just some tidying up. You and Selina are going to take a trip out to the docks. There're some items that need seen to."

 

John's mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are wide, but Selina's expression turns positively wicked.

 

"We'll take my ride," she declares, and Bruce laughs.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Well, it's no "bicycle built for two," but they make it work. He could do with a little less gas and a whole lot more caution but isn't fool enough to say that. Selina'd just take it as a dare and up the ante even more.

 

So he hangs on and for the first few miles is hyperaware of what exactly he's hanging on _to_ , which is to say he tries to keep his hands far above the waist and loose. That changes after the first real turn, down on 107th as they head across Midtown and out towards the docks. That's when John's forced to grip her tight in order to stay on, not just her waist and hips but around her thighs too, and after that it's a much closer ride. He's pretty sure he catches her laughing a few times. She probably deliberately took the turn that fast.

 

All told, it's about a half hour trip to the water on the "bike." When they get there, Selina pulls off behind a big stack of shipping containers and kills the engine. She doesn't immediately take off the helmet she's wearing but nevertheless turns her head over her shoulder to look at him, and he just knows she's grinning.

 

"Fun," he comments, finally letting go of her waist and doing his best to get off the damn thing without falling on his face. He feels like jello, and it's a big piece of equipment, but it seems to handle pretty smoothly. He can see why she likes it.

 

Sure enough, she jerks the helmet off, and there's a big-ass grin splitting her face. He can see nearly every tooth, and there's definitely a mischievous quality to the way she's looking at him.

 

"Oh, you haven't seen nothing yet," she responds, easily slinging a leg off the bike and getting to her feet like it's nothing out of the ordinary that they were just zooming through the mess Gotham's become on Batman's former ride and in some spots doing close to 75 mph—if not more. There's no speedometer on the thing, not that he can see.

 

Selina sets her helmet on the "seat," so John does likewise, dragging his off and shaking his head a little to clear it. Then, they set off, quickly orienting themselves in the yard and heading to the right. A few minutes and maybe half a mile later, they reach a tall chain link fence with the Wayne Enterprises logo on it.

 

"'Caution,' my ass," Selina huffs, reading the posted warnings scattered at regular intervals along the fence. "There's probably no danger here at all—just did it to keep folks out."

 

"Well, I don't know about _'no_ danger,'" John returns, smirking at her. "Stumbling into the Batman's lair wouldn't be something I'd've wanted to do."

 

She shoots him a look before effortlessly climbing up the fence and then somehow flipping over it back down to the ground on the other side. "That was before," she says to him through the links, and he actually catches himself grinning back at her, his eyes caught on the twist of her mouth, his mind caught up by how strange it is seeing her back in her costume of red lips, high heels, and black leather, after days of jeans and sweaters and no makeup.

 

He can't say which version he prefers, and then realizes he likes them both, and then realizes he likes—her.

 

His climb up the fence is worlds more awkward and labored, and he falls back down to the ground rather than smoothly descending to it, but Selina's still smiling. She rolls her eyes at him, and then they're off again, closing the distance between the fence and the warehouse-that-isn't-really-a-warehouse. It's done up with so much security that it's a miracle they can even get in by themselves, but Bruce was pretty clear on what to do and even when to do it. There's a fingerprint scan, which Selina deals with, and then a pass code that John types in, and then they're done. They're in.

 

It's a lift down underground, the lights turning on by sensor. Here, it's blinding and utilitarian, and it takes him a moment to reconcile it with his image of Batman—until he suddenly gets that this isn't really Batman's lair, so much as it is Bruce's.

 

And it's not like they're separate people. Bruce isn't _that_ crazy. It's more like—switching registers, modifying one's behavior and attitude to fit the situation, and John can certainly identify with that. He goes back and forth between civilian and cop all the time, still, even with not being on the force anymore. It's an adjustment, and the uniform had helped to cement the mentality, sure, but it wasn't necessary. John's been a cop in his pajama pants before and a civilian in his dress blues. He wore a suit and tie for only a short while, but he still feels something like a detective, has for almost half a year now. So, Batman's probably just—Bruce's version of that. And the dumb playboy was just an act, and that makes John think of. . .

 

"What a boring, boring fortress," Selina comments, strutting around the empty space with an almost offended air. She's actually pouting, and John has a hard time containing his smile.

 

"What were you expecting," he asks, "something with a moat and a dragon?"

 

She pulls a face but is clearly faking because she cracks after just a few seconds. The smile this time is more real, for lack of a better word, more sincere maybe. They're standing a few feet apart, and there's still tons of room in here. Surely it can't all be empty, or else why did Bruce send them here? He'd said they wouldn't need any bags, or a place to put them, which is why taking the bike had worked, but what's even here to take? It's barren.

 

"I don't know, honestly," Selina answers. "Sure wasn't this, though." She meanders over to the nearest wall and runs her hand along it for awhile. "This is just sad—so empty and plain. Boring."

 

John looks over, and their eyes meet, and he's pretty sure they're thinking the same thing.

 

"Maybe the floor?" he suggests.

 

One corner of her mouth quirks up, and she shrugs, but they both start looking around more carefully, more thoroughly, searching for the lever or button or panel that's bound to be here.

 

Bruce and his gadgets and secrets and weird sense of humor.

 

***

 

Barely loaded down with equipment and a few files, John and Selina are back on the bike and just entering Midtown again when they hear the first of them.

 

Sirens. Emergency sirens, and it's been months since he's heard that racket, but even so something in John instantly pricks its ears up, and his adrenaline spikes. Then, Selina's turning down a different street than what they need to be on, and John realizes that it's coming from behind them. The sirens are behind them on the street. He hopes it's a coincidence, but then he remembers what the Commissioner had said to him about that. No such thing anymore as coincidences.

 

He thinks to call out to her, ask her what she's doing, but between the roar of the engine, the speed of the wind rushing at them, and the sirens themselves, it'd likely prove pretty useless. He'd just be shouting to himself, might even end up distracting her from the road.

 

Then, they're one street to the west, running parallel to the emergency vehicles—fire trucks, black and whites, even a few ambulances. It's not until he and Selina are forced back onto the same street due to a pile-up on the diverted route, this time only a block ahead of the procession, that John accepts the fact they're going to have to stop. It's getting kind of ridiculous now, but they can't keep going like this. They can't go back to Oldtown like this. They can't—go near Bruce with a fucking motorcade trailing after them.

 

So, he squeezes her around the middle, but she just shakes her head. Stubborn. She knows damn well but is refusing to admit defeat. But, it takes one to know one. So, next, John lifts an arm and, stretching more than is either wise or really comfortable, places it over Selina's on the brake lever. He's careful not to land it on the throttle, or else she might deliberately misinterpret his request, but when her body goes tense before slumping in resignation, John knows he's made his point.

 

He's also draped over her back, and some parts of him begin to take notice, but she's slowing down by then, and the emergency vehicles aren't, so he's distracted—luckily. That would be pretty embarrassing to suffer through. She'd probably smirk and then tease him mercilessly about it for the next several days.

 

Selina finally pulls over to the side of the street, which, these days, is actually the right lane, sometimes the middle one, as the turning lanes right by the curbs are filled with trash and broken down vehicles and likely other things no one wants to examine too closely. The fire trucks pass them by, setting up a blockade so they can't take off quickly. The cop cars and the ambulances hang back, though, and John's still plastered against Selina, so he feels it when she shakes her head, and he imagines she's feeling as fed up by this as he is.

 

Then, he imagines what this must seem like to the other guys, the ones manning those trucks and ambulances, driving those cop cars, and he straightens up and gets off the bike with only a little trouble. He's getting better, at least.

 

Slow and steady, like he'd been taught, he turns around, reaches up to his head, and lifts off his helmet. The guys in the black and whites are fanned out behind their doors, but they aren't aiming anything this way. John shoots a quick glance back the other way, and, sure enough, the firefighters aren't set up for any trouble either. He can just barely make out their expressions, though, just catches the drop down of disappointment.

 

Not a theft then. A miracle. That's what these guys had been chasing.

 

John faces forward again, looks at the men by the cars, and isn't really all that surprised to see a familiar face.

 

"You going to shoot me, Commissioner?" he shouts, unable to resist smiling a little. Beside him, Selina hasn't moved a muscle, is still sitting in position on the bike, as though just by wishing it they'll all go away and leave them alone. No such luck, but that's where John comes in. Bruce is out for the count. Selina's still a criminal. John's just a cop who lost faith.

 

"Not today, we're not," Gordon calls back, and it's as much a greeting as it is an order to the guys with him. That really gets him, unexpectedly so. He'd known it wasn't the end of the world, quitting the force, not with everything that's happened and all that he'd done during The Occupation. He'd known any hard feelings the other cops might have towards him wouldn't be serious, wouldn't cause him any real problems. He'd known all that, intellectually, but seeing it's different. The reality slams into him in that moment, that he is a cop no longer, that he is not one of them, no matter how much good he tries to do or how much he helps or how many tip-offs he might give the boys and girls in blue.

 

John Blake isn't a policeman. He's just a regular guy, riding on the back of Batman's bike, with a woman perhaps easily identifiable as a felon. Thank God it's Gordon, or else they might really be in for it. Cops these days aren't too patient with lawbreakers.

 

John carefully tucks the helmet under his arm and slowly walks towards the barricade. Gordon does the same, impatiently waving back one guy who starts to follow.

 

"This is my former partner," the Commissioner announces, and John's pretty sure the guy means it.

 

He's honestly touched.

 

"Go full out for speeders these days, don'tcha?" John teases, but the situation's wrong. Up close, Gordon looks like hell. Seems like there's more gray in the Commissioner's hair and more of a slouch to his shoulders.

 

Well, and no wonder, considering he still thinks the Batman's dead. That's enough to make any cop in the city depressed, now that they know the truth, that is.

 

Gordon doesn't acknowledge the joke, just meets John's eyes and then pointedly looks past him to Selina—and the bike.

 

"Your new ride's quite the beaut," Gordon says, and it's quiet, too quiet and too stilted. Now, John just feels like an ass because here's a guy clearly– clearly mourning a friend who's just died in a horrible way, and here's the rookie making snarky comments—and riding on the supposedly dead friend's bike. Nice, Blake.

 

"It actually belongs to a friend of mine," John responds, giving a quick jerk of his head towards Selina. "A gift from another—friend," he then adds, watching awkwardly as Gordon's face creases in sorrow before quickly smoothing back out into neutrality.

 

Yeah, this sucks. He feels like he's being cruel to Gordon, stringing him along and leaving him in this state of sorrow and grief, but he can't very well tell him the truth. Doing so would mean betraying Bruce, and that's the last thing he wants.

 

But, all the lying—isn't that what helped land them in this mess? What's that old saying? Something about a civilization rotting from within before it's conquered from without. Gotham had made itself vulnerable.

 

"Your feline friend," Gordon says, causing John to smile just a little, "she staying out of tight spots?" Then, he breaks eye contact, head and eyes going up as he seems to search the sky—for something. "It's a new city that's waking up, a new beginning for all of us."

 

Again, John remembers the admiration he'd had for this man for so long. He'd lost it when the truth had come out about Dent's murder and the cover-up, but. . .

 

"I'll keep an eye on her," John says, and Gordon drops his attention back down to earth, meeting John's eyes once more and shooting him a smile, maybe even a real one.

 

"I know you will," he answers, reaching out to set a hand on John's shoulder. "You do good," he adds, and it's the Commissioner saying that to him, a civilian, and John can't tell if it's him stating a fact or him giving one last order to his– his partner.

 

So, John simply nods and says, "I will, sir."

 

And then he turns, and he and Selina leave the good guys to their fight—down one cop, one criminal, and one hero.

 

***

 

The next day, he goes back to making his rounds in the neighborhood. He tries to help, settle any disputes, clear up any problems. Mostly, he just wanders around, usually accompanied by one or two of the boys constantly underfoot these days. They're all eager to help, and he appreciates that, but they do get on his nerves because the majority of them can't seem to stop talking.

 

The stories, the tall tales, really, are already running rampant. They're almost a currency themselves, and of course the boys just eat 'em up, can't get enough of the Batman and the Commissioner fighting off an entire army of Banes. It doesn't matter how outrageous or preposterous the tale, if it's entertaining and makes Batman look good, then in Oldtown you're okay, and you're welcome to come in and have a share of whatever's left, whatever's being cooked, whatever's turned up, whatever's come back.

 

A required element in every good story is the explanation for Batman's disappearance. For five months, he'd been gone, and the tricky part is making that not seem as horribly unintentional as it was. John's heard the abridged version from Selina. He knows the real reason Batman wasn't here. He likes the stories better in that regard.

 

But, another newfound storytelling convention doesn't sit as well with him, and that's that Batman was somehow perfect.

 

And he wasn't. Batman wasn't invincible. He lost, made mistakes, did wrong. Making him some god-like figure ruins the whole undertaking. It's that he couldn't be kept down that made him great. Perseverance and– and hope is what Batman really stood for—not giving in to fear and despair, not giving up. He was the better parts of humanity, but he was still human. That's what gets lost in the stories where he's always right and incorruptible. The Batman is really just a stand-in for everyone, for anyone. Do you accept? Or do you challenge? He's a symbol for determination.

 

Bruce was a good man, but he was just a man. He gave up. For eight years, he basically lived a lie in the hopes it would, what—all work out in the end? He and the Commissioner used that old mentality that the ends justify the means, and that was wrong. John knows that was their first mistake, can see that clearly now in his perfect 20/20 hindsight, but what's worse is the fact that Bruce and Jim Gordon know it too—knew it then even.

 

No wonder they'd hated Harvey Dent Day. The Commissioner had managed to pass it off as residual grief over Dent's murder, but Bruce had just locked himself away in his empty mansion.

 

And why had they done it?

 

The Joker did win, after all. That's what John keeps coming back to. He'd first thought it during The Occupation, when one of the few other cops still above ground in the city had said something about it being so quiet these last few years. They'd gotten complacent, he'd said, and John had agreed at the time, but it's only now that he really understands.

 

John can remember The Joker. He'd been in high school at the time, a sophomore, and he'd been running with the wrong kind of people, and the Father had been on his case a lot because at that point there hadn't been too much time left until he'd age out of the home. Then came The Joker and his legendary heists.

 

Some of the guys John hung out with knew some other guys who knew some guys who worked for the clown—stuff like that. And they told stories, and John would hear people on the streets talk about it, and for awhile, just for a month or two when he was 15 and stupid and almost desperate enough to throw his life away, John had thought The Joker was cool, that he had the right thinking, that he'd caught onto what was really going on and what really needed to happen, and he'd done it. The Joker had made his point and gotten everyone to listen. He had all the cops running scared, and the mayor himself always looked freaked out on the TV, and, even cooler, Batman was paying attention. That was back when people mostly liked Batman. They'd cheered him on, or at least most had, and it seemed like even Batman was concerned about this Joker guy, who stole and burned and just seemed to have a hell of a time doing it.

 

John hates that kid he was, that dumbass punk who thought he knew how the world really worked because his childhood had sucked. The world was out to get that kid, and so he'd felt it was his right to try and get it back. And he'd tried. He'd done his best to fuck it up, had come pretty damn close to signing his life over to a murdering madman dressed up like a fucking clown, for Christ's sake, and all so he could say he was a big man and wasn't nobody getting the better of him anymore.

 

John hated himself for that and to this day still feels like he's working it off, like it's a debt he'll never repay. But, he didn't really get it until almost six months ago, not until Bane and his army of self-righteous thugs came in and shook up the whole place like a kid's ant farm. When he'd heard Bane saying that stuff about Batman taking the blame and realized it was Gordon's own fucking words, something had clicked in his head.

 

Everyone thought The Joker had lost, that he'd been locked up and shipped off and utterly defeated. The price, they'd thought, was that Harvey Dent had been murdered, but it also showed Batman's true colors. That was the tradeoff, and John didn't even know how many times he'd overheard, right after everything with The Joker and the boats and Dent's murder and all of it, some stranger say, "Well, I knew the whole time that Batman was up to no good," or, "I never trusted a guy who dressed up like that and hid his face," or, and this was John's favorite, "I always knew something like this would happen."

 

They thought, the whole of Gotham, the whole world, that Batman was just another villain, and they thought The Joker was defeated. Well, as it turns out, eight years later and countless affirmations that they'd known all along, everyone was wrong—on both counts.

 

Batman wasn't a villain. Nobody thinks that anymore. Anyone who had is either dead or locked up or running for their lives. Batman's a hero. John's even heard some rumblings that they're planning a monument of some kind, once the city's back on its feet and the donations can be sorted out and put aside.

 

But, they were wrong about The Joker too. He didn't lose, not really. He didn't do all that he'd been planning to, but he did defeat the Batman. He broke him. It's just nobody realized it until it was too late. Just like how nobody realized it was Batman who was there for them until it was too late—until he was dying for them, until he was dead in a nuclear bomb explosion he'd saved them from.

 

And John doesn't think he'll ever forget that feeling of being told differently. Selina's face in that moment is ingrained in his memory, never to be wiped. He's got a few of those, some he cherishes and others that make him long for some kind of targeted amnesia, but that one's pretty good.

 

It's only second to climbing up the creaking stairs and keying into the apartment to the sight of Bruce and Selina talking, and smiling, and turning at the same time to look at him.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The second week is when the problems really start cropping up. At this point, she figures Fate owes the whole damn city a little fucking peace and quiet, but at least they've managed a week.

 

There are fires. There are shootings. There's another mass breakout, and this time it's Arkham.  
  
  


Then, there's the smaller stuff, and isn't that thought just irritating. For anyone else, the shit she's dealing with now on a personal level would be huge, life-altering, worst case scenario material—but, no, not for her.

 

Her life starts, or restarts, around three or four in the morning every day because that's the first wake up call. Usually, easily more than half the time, it's Bruce, and he'll suddenly call out, shout, even scream something pretty unintelligible but definitely frantic, and that's her or John's cue to bolt awake or quietly groan in frustration but nevertheless trudge over and try to—make it better somehow. She tries to be comforting, when it's her turn, but too often she's sure she comes across impatient and vaguely irritated. She can't help it, and it's not like Bruce himself can help it, but he sure doesn't make it any better by hiding from it and refusing to even talk about what the hell is terrifying him almost every night. It's not like she's stupid, and neither is John. There's bad stuff there, and they both get that, and pretending it's nothing is ridiculous.

 

But, he won't be moved. One thing she's learned in just the short time she's known him is Bruce Wayne's the epitome of stubborn. She's even said that to him, has told him off for being obstinate about the dumbest things, but that just makes him dig his heels in deeper. He turns his head away. That's how he ends the conversation. Well, he's just made it to walking around by himself, and stomping about the place and slamming her doors in the frames is still a ways off, so looking at the wall or out the window is really probably the best he can do, but it's still silly and childish, and so is he.

 

She wants to know what he's battling when he's asleep, whether it's from the time he was gone or further back. Some masochistic part of her needs that, wants him to turn his head back to look at her one night and just stare her down. She catches herself sometimes about to open her mouth and apologize, and then she'll snap it shut, and the words never escape.

 

It's curiosity, fascination. It's attraction. She wonders if he's always been like this, or if it's just the times they're living in. Did he jolt awake in his million dollar mansion every night? Did he scream in that penthouse of his or the Ivy league college he went to or the expensive boarding school? What about the places nobody's followed him—the years he disappeared, the months he never returned? There are several lifetimes of scars on him, and he won't say a word about any of them. He's stubborn in that too.

 

But, she can't ever ask, and he'll never say. Who knows if either of them will ever break through?

 

When it's not Bruce waking her up though, it's her own head, or it's the fact that it's her turn to monitor the neighborhood. Truth is, they're all looking a bit haggard these days.

 

People are still desperate, but the average citizen's life is likely taking a turn for the better. The supplies are coming in again, and communication's supposedly going back up in the next few days, but it's the crooks and thugs who're hurting—and when they're hurting so's everybody around them. Maybe people farther uptown are getting back to normal life, but down here it's still a fight to keep what's yours.

 

So she and John make it a point to go out in turns every few hours and just see what's what. He comes back with scrapes and bruises, and yesterday it was a pronounced limp, but he doesn't seem too down about it. Sometimes, it's supplies in his arms too, and those are good days. John's second time out, he'd bounded back in with three boxes of macaroni and cheese, a tomato, and a freakin' cucumber, said with a smile that they didn't want to know what he'd had to do to get all of it, and they'd laughed, but now she wonders. Fresh food is rare, really, really rare. Maybe it was more of that Blake charm because she knows for a fact he's pretty good with both the ladies and the so-inclined fellas. Maybe it was just him being a cop or him acting like he's still a cop. Maybe it was him knocking some heads together. John doesn't say, but the wry twist to his mouth tells her she's not the only one still having some trouble out there.

 

Selina of course is threatened with rape at least half a dozen times every turn, and she's almost to the point of hacking her hair off just so the assholes can't make a grab for it, but what Gotham is right now, what Oldtown has always been in a way, is nothing new, and she knows how to handle herself.

 

Doesn't mean it's not hard or not stressful. Doesn't mean it's not still absurdly cold outside. Doesn't mean it's not slowly killing her, living like this—like they're all in stasis, shock, some long drawn out illness, and they're waiting, waiting, waiting. . .  

 

She doesn't like the person she was during The Occupation, and she doesn't like not being able to give that person the shove out the door she deserves. That Selina's useful, but she's not a good person, and good is what she wants now. She wants happy and calm, and happy isn't her having to constantly look over her shoulder, and calm is most definitely not Gotham these days. Most likely, she'll tire of it pretty quickly, but she wants the opportunity, the experience. She wants to be able to tell herself a year, two, ten from now, that she made up for lost time after The Occupation. Bruce has hinted he's planning on leaving the city once he's able, and she is leaving with him, and the Selina going is not a cat burglar. In fact, the Selina who leaves Gotham will be brand new and completely pristine, and the communications can't be reconnected soon enough because when the internet's back up—she is gone from the world's databases. That's pretty much her first order of business.

 

Her real first order of business, however, is convincing a certain someone that, no, they're not taking the stitches out a week early, and, no, she's not going to move so he can stretch out for sit-ups. Bruce must be feeling better. He's much more vocal the second week about how fed up he is with "all this."

 

"Well, I'm just so sorry you feel that way," she finds herself saying back, "because we sure love having you like this—grumpy and irritating and _whiny_. That's just what everyone wants in a man, you know."

 

He glowers at her, but she just makes a face back at him because they both know damn well he's not going to do anything, and yet he'll never admit it. It's just more of that mulishness.

 

Now is usually about when John would come in, as his timing is almost always perfect, but of course not today. Today's been a bad day. Bruce woke up early, screaming and crying, and she knows the last one's what really got to him. So, he's embarrassed and ashamed and freaked out already, and then on her turn outside a couple hours later, she heard about the Arkham escape and made the mistake of telling him about it upon returning to the apartment. He didn't take it well.

 

So, now he keeps trying to wear her down on the no exercising rule because evidently the Batman is the only one capable of dealing with this newest of threats. Only, and both she and John have told him this multiple times today, Batman is still dead, and Bruce is still in bed with a huge wound in his side, which, she adds during the second round of arguing, he was lucky to survive, seeing as how he didn't seek any medical attention from anyone, and she didn't find him until it was already infected, and he very nearly died of sepsis.

 

"That's blood poisoning, in case you didn't know," she'd said. Bruce had already turned his head away at that point, but she'd felt the need to ask, "Are you so desperate to commit suicide you'll rush off at the first sign of trouble?"

 

"It's not suicide," he'd actually replied—well, bit out, really. His jaw had been so tense that she could have cracked a walnut on it.

 

But, now, it looks like they're starting the third round, and for this one Bruce is attempting—wile?

 

Christ, she wishes John were here. It's his turn for this crap. She much prefers the morons with knives over the ones with honor.

 

Well, mostly. The wile might be working a little, but that's really only because it's Bruce. . .

 

***

 

It's like looking into a funhouse mirror most of the time. This is the stuff of nightmares, ghost stories, B movies with bad special effects and weird music. And this is their life. This is her life, and it's all tangled up and snarled—with Bruce, with John, with this fucking pathetic excuse for a city.

 

John's late coming in, but when he does it's with another armful of food. He's also managed to snag some more painkillers that they both chuckle over a little because Bruce refused to take any more three days ago and has been a real joy since.

 

"You want to go in there and talk him out of whatever he's planning now?" she oh-so-politely requests, and John raises his eyebrows and smirks, but he goes.

 

Thirty minutes. All's quiet for half an hour, and then she hears a distinct thump and a banging sound and then John's voice shouting, "You fucking moron! You can't even walk straight yet!"

 

All kinds of scenarios are running through her head, but she's up and opening the door, and turns out it's just Bruce—in a manner of speaking.

 

"What the hell?" she can't help muttering, and she's not sure whether to laugh or yell at what she's witnessing. "Did he get the drop on you?" she finally asks, shooting John a bewildered look down to where he's just now getting off the floor. John of course scowls back at her, and maybe that's because of the amusement in her voice, but—seriously?

 

This is just weird, and nice, but mostly weird and not a little hilarious, but definitely, mostly, seriously weird.

 

Something drops from the ceiling fan to the floor, and it's John's shirt, and she and John both look down first at it and then up at—Bruce. Or Batman. It's hard to tell. When he gets pissed, she can't help but remember he's the same guy who went around punching and kicking the shit out of crooks because he gets that look on his face that's as hard as nails, that look he has right now.

 

But, John's not wearing his shirt anymore, and his hair's all messy, and the sheets on the bed are twisted, and Bruce is standing up and breathing hard—but this is not funny, this whatever it is. She is definitely not laughing.

 

She wonders who made the first move, manages to lock eyes with a panting Batman, and then she's off, doubling over with laughter, as the two of them stand there half-naked and completely ridiculous.

 

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," John grumbles, and Selina can't breathe she's shaking so hard with silent laughter.

 

"You guys are so fucking stupid," she eventually gets out, and by that point Bruce has sat down again on the bed, and John has picked up and put his shirt back on—backwards. She wheezes a little at that, points with her finger at the tag dangling just below his collarbone, and John looks down. . .

 

"Your shirt's on backwards," Bruce tells him suddenly, and that almost sets her off again, but she rallies.

 

"Seriously," she says, pushing the hair back from her face, "was what I think just happened actually happening, or is there a bizarre explanation for all—this?" She gestures to the room at large, and John's not blushing, not giving anything away, but oddly enough Bruce is.

 

He looks guilty as hell and embarrassed, although the latter isn't all that unusual. She gets the feeling he's not used to being dependent on others or maybe just not her and John. He'd had his guardian slash butler all those years after all.

 

What he didn't have was a lot of social interaction, which translates roughly to: Bruce is awkward, abrupt, reserved, and yet oddly familiar, like he knows them better than they know him, and he's irritated that they have to catch up, like they should all be past this stage already, like he's constantly waiting for them to understand some signal he's giving out. . .

 

Oh.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Or, maybe not. There's still the matter of the shouting and all the noises.

 

Then, it clicks. She moves across the room until she's standing right next to where Bruce is sitting, and then she puts a hand on his bare shoulder and asks rhetorically, "So were you planning on tying him up and going out the window, or was I going to be next?"

 

There's no giveaway in terms of body language, as he's too controlled for that, but that same stillness is all the answer she needs. What a bastard.

 

What a clever, ruthless, selfish, suicidal, arrogant, misguided, noble, son-of-a-bitch. It's a good thing he's still pretty and with the Devil's own luck because Bruce Wayne is his own worst enemy.

 

"You're a moron," she tells him, falling down to sit next to him on the bed. She leaves her hand on him because who knows what he'll try next in his desperate bid for escape, but she's almost tempted to just call it a day and not hash it all out. It's not like he'll change his mind. That much is clear. Any talking or ranting about how dangerous it is out there, especially for him and in his condition, is just going to fall on deaf ears or be her preaching to the choir that is John.

 

"Do you know who was among those to escape Arkham today?" Bruce then asks quietly, and she can feel the muscles in his shoulder shift as he turns to look at her.

 

"Crazies," Selina immediately responds, and Bruce purses his lips and closes his eyes, and she knows she's missed the point.

 

"I saw some of Gordon's men," John suddenly offers, and Selina looks over at him. He's still standing in the middle of the room, but he's got his shirt on and his arms crossed over his chest and his cop face on. Bad news, then. "On this last turn," he adds unnecessarily.

 

"Yeah, and what's new with the boys in blue?" she quips, moving back on the bed a little because she doesn't want to block Bruce's view of John. "Any word on the cell towers or cable lines?"

 

John shakes his head. Then he says, voice almost monotone, "They've got the National Guard and the Army coming in tomorrow. A lot of people– turns out, a lot of people are worried about the Arkham breakout."

 

Then he looks down, breaks eye contact, and even shifts his weight on his feet a little, and she feels the cold from outside abruptly slide down her spine. That's fear. That's John afraid.

 

"Who is it?" she asks, and it's not a whisper, but it's damn close. Then, a hand is sliding up her back, and for one wild second she thinks it's the chills again in reverse. But, no, it's Bruce. She turns back to him, and they're close but not all that close at all, really.

 

There's a difference between seeing Bruce and knowing him, and she's not there yet, and she doesn't think John is either. Maybe Bruce isn't even there yet.

 

She's looking him right in the eyes from only a few inches away, which is why she catches it—the _look_. And now she knows he was almost right. He is the Batman, underneath, but not all the way down. There's still a man in there, at the core, a hermit, someone who screams and cries, a boy maybe, lost and afraid and hiding—and revealing.

 

Batman wouldn't have looked as lost as Bruce does when he answers, "Joker," if that were all there were to him as a person. Batman feels no fear, no doubt.

 

It's Bruce, and she moves her own hand down his back, mirroring him, and she says with as much conviction as she can, "You're not going out there."

 

And then John adds unnecessarily, "Not alone, anyway," and Selina can see her reflection in Bruce's eyes as she grimaces.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

It only takes two hours of restless, heavy silence, and then he gets out of the bed and down onto the floor and starts working—and neither Selina nor John stops him. He starts with sit-ups then changes to crunches. The push-ups after that are both easier and more difficult, as he's not primarily using his stomach muscles but is rather just out of shape. He tacks on an additional 25 to the original number he'd been meaning to do and ends up falling to the floor before he can finish, at the last second managing to turn so he lands on his good side.

 

That's of course when he finally notices the presence at the bedroom door. He has no doubt whatsoever that she's been hovering there for longer than he's been aware, has probably watched the whole thing and is actually justified in her frustration and disbelief, but Selina says not a word—not when standing there with her arms crossed and an obviously forced neutral expression on her face, not when calmly walking over to him, and not when reaching down and lending him a hand to pull him to his feet.

 

The argument was always lost, would always be lost, and she is just the latest in a rather short but distinguished line of people who've attempted to dissuade him from standing up, getting into things, stepping back, coming back, staying out, and once more taking it up because this isn't over, and he'd promised himself, had sworn when he'd started that he'd never truly be what he pretended to be—that jaded, apathetic, useless man everyone knew as Bruce Wayne.

 

Selina is trying, though, even just by coming in here and silently disapproving of him, and he knows it's for the right reasons, the best of reasons, but what he can't seem to get across to her is that he's doing the same for her, for her and John, for Jim Gordon, Lucius, the good and honest officers and detectives of Gotham's police force, and for all the people who still live here and haven't given up. Selina hasn't said what they both know is driving her, what made her stay, what is even now motivating her to try and stop him from going back out there, but that doesn't mean it's a mystery. It just means it's unfamiliar, unexpected, and terrifying, but it's no secret. He feels the same; it's just his feelings encompass more. Selina cares for him. She'll love him if given enough time and the right conditions, and while he's not the only object of her affections in that regard, he is one of very few. There's her friend from before and the kids who no doubt remind her of herself. Then, there's John, and then there's Bruce.

 

But, it's different for him, and it has been for a long time.

 

Selina's lived in Gotham her whole life, and she's from here, and she knows this city and its people, but she doesn't care about it or them the same way he does. She has a good heart, and he's kind of overwhelmed by the fact she's now including him and taking him into consideration with regard to her life, but he can't change how he is any more than she can herself. They are who they are, and she's Selina, but he's not that Bruce Wayne. He is—something more. And he has a responsibility to this city.

 

It is his Place, more than just where he lives or is from. Gotham is his; he is Gotham—its people, its structures and history, and all of its potential just waiting to be realized, just hovering out of reach for men like him but not for everyone. And that's why he is here. He will get them there; he will carry and drag this whole city up if he has to. He'll save Gotham, and then maybe someone with a good heart will stretch down afterward and pull him up too—and maybe not. It doesn't matter. The rescue is what's important, not the aftermath. Gotham needs him, even though it doesn't want him, longs instead for someone brighter and more hopeful—just like he does.

 

Bruce is Gotham in a way no one else is or seems to understand. And he won't stop fighting for it for anyone, not Alfred, Selina, John, Lucius, not anyone, because he knows that what's right is picking oneself up after a fall, and soon Selina will get what he's pretty sure John already knows, what Alfred couldn't accept. Soon, she'll realize that it's not selfless, what he does, but survival.

 

He salvages Gotham from the ashes, and maybe he can manage the same for himself.

 

***

 

It's eight days after everything that he goes outside again. The stairs are a pain, but John doesn't even move an inch to help him, and it probably says something not entirely complimentary about them as people that they're both amused by this. Bruce finds it easier to descend the four flights of stairs with his mind on something else, and John just has a dark sense of humor. That they share a look at each landing, bemused and exasperated with John lifting his eyebrows and smirking and Bruce just shaking his head, is really only to be expected. They truly are more alike than they are different. It's remarkable sometimes.

 

Outside, it's bitingly cold with a wind that manages to rock both of them in their steps. Either John or Selina had somewhere in the last week and a half acquired a cane, and he's glad for it now, even if the need for it does chafe a bit.

 

Bruce looks up to orient himself and is taken aback by how active the sky is overhead. Clouds are rolling past at such a seemingly impossible high speed that it's no wonder the wind is as powerful as it is. The whole effect is something like water boiling above them, and it's strangely beautiful, looking almost close enough to touch. . .

 

"Got one guy sayin' this is just the beginning of our problems," comes John's voice at his shoulder. Bruce turns his head a little, getting a glimpse of him out of his peripheral vision. "It's the radiation, see. It's poison—the water, the air, the people; radiation will get into everything. Guy was pretty surprised we haven't seen much yet."

 

Then he feels John's eyes on him more heavily than before and anticipates the question before it can be asked.

 

"I haven't felt anything like that," Bruce tells him quietly, watching from the corner of his eye as a weight seems to lift from John's shoulders.

 

"Good," John says in return, and then he places a hand on Bruce's shoulder and squeezes. "That's good."

 

It lasts maybe another few seconds, and then the mood is changed between them again. John pulls his hand back, slips it into the pocket of his coat, and he even takes a minute step away. It's kind of ridiculous really, and initially Bruce thinks it's John being embarrassed or absurdly shy about last night. But then, it occurs to him that it's more likely John feels he's been played, made a fool of, even betrayed, and maybe he simply just doesn't want to hurt himself more by showing Bruce too much.

 

Kindness and affection are easy weapons in the hands of one's enemies, and Bruce's gut clenches with the realization that he'd turned those same feelings of John's back against him last night. He'd done what has been done to him—many times, each worse and more lasting than the one before it.

 

He'd used John's attraction and affection as a distraction, hiding his real intentions in the hopes he'd eventually be able to slip out the window. He is in practice no better than the people he abhors.

 

It's unfortunately not an entirely startling revelation, more a sudden but firm grasp on the obvious. Sometimes, there are larger issues than the necessary means; sometimes, the ends do justify whatever steps it took to achieve them. That's just the truth, but it's not the case this time. Bruce was wrong last night, and he knows that now, but what's beyond him is bridging that resulting gap. What kind of apology would ever cover the fact that he'd kissed and touched John for the sole purpose of distracting him?

 

He thinks this, comes to this realization, and then he turns and starts walking up the street, and John follows, but now Bruce can feel the strain, the gulf between them that wasn't there until last night.

 

They go up the street two blocks and then return, and physically he's not as badly off as he'd expected. He really shouldn't be surprised by how much the stabbing affects walking though, by how big a role the muscles there play in even the simplest of movements, but he is. She'd done a good job under the circumstances. No organs hit, which she must have been going for, but he'll be feeling this for a long time. Somehow, it hurts more after he thinks that, and he can't help stumbling a little on the sidewalk. Of course, John's right there. No outstretched hand or rhetorical questions about how Bruce is feeling, but he's there—and under the circumstances, that only intensifies the ache and pull inside.

 

"Think we've gone far enough today," John says, and Bruce turns and meets his eyes.

 

"I suppose so," he eventually concedes.

 

***

 

The gossip proves true for once, and communication is restored the next day. The landline phones are still non-operational, but cells pick up a signal, and they hear word of internet connection happening in certain locations—libraries, medical clinics, utilities. Soon, no doubt, they'll try for electricity and water, although in what condition and to what extent it will return remains unclear. Like John had said, the fallout from the blast isn't over yet.

 

Once John comes in with the initial word on communication, though, Selina gets that look on her face, and soon she's taking off. They hear her running and all but jumping down the stairs, and then John turns to Bruce, a questioning look on his face.  
  


"Important phone call?" he jokes.

 

Bruce quirks his mouth a little, shaking his head. "No," he answers, "more like a date with the world wide web." He waits a moment, eventually settling on, "She deserves a fresh start, a second chance." Bruce looks up, meets John's serious eyes. "That's all she was after."

 

"And you had this 'fresh start' just lying around?" John asks, dubiously. "What, is it money?"

 

Bruce scoffs, sets the book he'd been paging through aside and shifts on the couch to face him directly. "You really think she couldn't get that by herself?" John doesn't answer, doesn't even shift expressions, but they both know what Selina's capable of, and money is the least of her concerns. "It's a program," Bruce explains, "a clean slate, wiped from all records and databases."

 

" _Electronic_ records and databases," John corrects after a second or two, visibly rallying to what's been old news to Bruce for nearly half a year.

 

"Well, yes," Bruce responds, "but considering most of her— _transgressions_ were either here in the city or in places equally as big, all of which have been operating electronically for nearly a decade, I think it's safe to say she's got her bases covered."

 

"So, she just disappears—like she never existed?" John asks, and Bruce nods. "And you just handed over this program, just like that? No questions about what she'll do afterward, who else she might give it to?"

 

"I trust her," he says simply. "She probably won't even hang onto the drive. Likely smash it as soon as it's done."

 

John takes a deep breath and moves away, pacing a little and running a hand over the back of his neck.

 

Bruce intends to wait but finds his patience is somewhat lacking today.

 

"You don't think so?" he asks John, or maybe he should think of him as Blake, as he seems to be reacting how a cop would, as a stranger would to someone with Selina's track record.

 

"Look," John responds, and it sounds calm and understanding, but he's still pacing, "it's not really that I don't trust her—or that I doubt your instincts. You– you clearly know what you're doing. It's just," and he stops while he's standing in the far corner of the room by the windows, "I've seen this before."

 

"Really?" Bruce replies, and the sarcasm must come through loud and clear because John suddenly whirls around looking irritated.

 

"Well, not this exact situation," he amends, and even the apparently serious point he's trying to make isn't enough to keep all the humor from his voice, even if it never reaches his face, "but, yes, something similar. You've got someone who wants something and someone who has it, and you put them together, and—one of 'em gets hurt." He pauses, devoid again of all humor and levity, then says, "Someone always gets hurt, Bruce."

 

"And you think it's going to be me."

 

John exhales loudly again, looks as if he's about one step away from throwing his hands up in the air and walking away from all of this, but then he closes the distance between them in quick strides, ends up standing by one arm of the couch with a hand lightly resting on the material, and it occurs to Bruce that perhaps John is substituting touching the couch for touching—something else. Perhaps, and now that he thinks on it directly, it seems even likelier that it really isn't a case of John distrusting Selina, so much as it is him worrying about Bruce.

 

It makes sense. He knows John cares. This is just more proof.

 

"Come here," Bruce says before he can think better of it, and he reaches out to John with his hand palm-up.

 

"Uh, what?" John replies, and suddenly he's standing straight up, no longer leaning on the arm of the couch or even looking at Bruce.

 

It's enough to make him smile, and he can't help it, doesn't even try to hide it.

 

"I said, 'Come here,'" Bruce repeats, waving his open hand around a little to get John's attention back.

 

Slowly, John takes a couple steps, enough to put him in front of the sofa, and then he carefully sits down—a cushion away from Bruce. And the whole time, he's got that closed-off expression on his face, that neutral, unaffected, assessing look Bruce finds irritating—probably because he wears it himself and knows what it means.

 

"You going to try to sneak out again?" John quips, and Bruce drops his hand back down to his lap.

 

He deserves that, that and more, but it doesn't mean it doesn't sting.

 

"I deserve that," Bruce admits, settling back into the couch.

 

John doesn't immediately respond, but Bruce can feel his stare, wonders what he's looking for.

 

"It's not a game, is it?" John eventually asks, and something about his voice, maybe the pitch or the volume, makes him sound simultaneously young and old, and Bruce remembers John is only 25 but that he's lived in Gotham his whole life.

 

And he can't find the right words. He's at a loss as to how to proceed, what to say. Obviously an apology is needed, but–

 

"Wow," John then says, and it's amused and somewhat bitter, "you are really bad at this."  
  
  


"Not much practice," Bruce returns, going for the same tone but falling short. He sounds angry—not at all teasing or witty.

 

John makes a light huffing sound then shifts on the couch, stretching out his legs and flinging an arm over the back of it. "Yeah, me neither," he says after awhile. "Figured it was always more trouble than it's worth."  
  
  


"Not a ladies' man, then?" Bruce says, trying for another joke and marginally pulling it off. It still feels pretty forced between them, but at least it's not the uncomfortable silence of before.

 

"Uh, no," John responds, "not even close. What about you, though?" he asks, his voice lighter. "You used to date all those celebrities, right? I mean, I know it was a front for, uh, being Batman, but some of it was real—right?"

 

"Not as much you'd think," he answers. "There wasn't anyone." And he feels like he's lying by saying that, but it's the truth. Now he knows and can admit to himself that there really hadn't been anyone he wanted who had wanted him back. It hurts, but it's not overwhelming. It will fade in time like everything does, and maybe in this case, maybe with—Rachel, it will be better than it was before. Maybe he'll be able to put her to rest finally and not lose himself to the rush of guilt that remembering her had always caused before.

 

Maybe he can move on, knowing she would have, knowing it just wasn't meant to happen.

 

And at least she hadn't had to see what became of Harvey.

 

"I'm sorry," he then says, loud and clear, and John whips his head to the side to look at him, but Bruce doesn't return it. "I shouldn't have done that. It was cruel."

 

"Yeah," John responds a moment later, "it really was."

 

Bruce nods, sighs, turns his head and finally meets John's eyes. They're not even as angry or unforgiving as he'd thought which bodes well. . .

 

"I should've known, though," John offers, a slight curling to the corners of his mouth.

 

And Bruce obligingly prompts, "Known what?" expecting something along the lines of John admitting he has trust issues, or that Bruce is too clever for his own good.

 

Instead, he gets, "That mouth of yours is trouble, Mr. Wayne."

 

"Well, I did say there wasn't anyone," Bruce admits, "but that doesn't mean no one tried."

 

And John actually smiles at that. "Now who's the ladies' man?" he teases, and maybe the happiness doesn't completely reach his eyes, and maybe they're still on shaky ground with whatever this is.

 

But, they're both trying, and Bruce is used to getting his way. He's not one to settle for failure.

 

"Right now?" he responds, pointedly scooting over on the couch until only a few inches separate them, registering a noise in the background but not worried by it. "I don't think either of us qualifies. I don't see any ladies here at the moment, do you?"

 

John blinks and in the space of one, maybe two, seconds seems to decide something. He sits up and without hesitation just places a hand on Bruce's face, almost cupping his left cheek. Then, he leans forward and says, right before his lips touch Bruce's, "She'd hit you for calling her a lady."

 

Then, there's the sound of the door being shut and locked, and the words, "Not as hard as she'll hit you, John-boy," ring out in the apartment.

 

Bruce pulls back, but John doesn't. Selina walks into the room, stopping in front of the couch with an amused look.

  
  
"I just can't leave you two alone, can I?"

 

Bruce looks at John, says sotto voce, "She was probably standing there the whole time," and he smiles when John actually chuckles, when Selina makes a noise in her throat and throws her coat and scarf across the room.

 

Not bad for a day's work. 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

It's not that he runs or lifts for shits and giggles; it's just always been necessary. He lives where he lives and works where he lives, and that's not really the nicest neighborhood in the city. It's actually the polar opposite of nice. Working out is what he calls it now as an adult, when in truth it's really only the polite way of saying, _"I'd prefer not to get my ass handed to me if I can help it, thanks."_

 

So he runs a lot, and he lifts weights when he can, and he's conditioned himself to at least feel like he's doing okay afterward, if not all that happy about things. Life is okay; _his_ life is decent. It's not the greatest—never has been and never will be. That's just the facts. But, then again, nobody's life is perfect. People in Gotham, none of them have it really good anymore. The rich were all murdered and swindled, and good luck to the few still alive in getting their stuff back. The weak-poor were trampled over, and the strong-poor did the trampling. Maybe the folks in the middle were able to keep their heads down, and maybe they weren't. Fact is, though, no one came through untouched.

 

John's skinny now—no other word for it. Oh, there was still plenty of running going on those five months but not as much lifting and not nearly enough good eating. If he never even _sees_ another can of beans or stick of beef jerky, it will still be too soon for his liking. Even the thought of sticking that crap in his mouth again makes him grimace.

 

The result is that he's still fast with good stamina for distance and quite adept at thinking on the fly, particularly navigating around obstacles in his path, but he can't pull himself up worth a damn, so it's ground or stairs, no climbing. His legs are good, really good, and his brain's just fine on the adrenaline, but his arms and upper body are pathetic. Not the worst situation, but he could be better. He will be. It'll just take awhile.

 

He helps out around the neighborhood because he always has, and he's a creature of habit—likes to be anyway, when he can. People move back into the apartments that have stood empty for almost a half a year, or they finish what the opportunists started and pick over the bare bones of what's left in the places. Either way, there's stuff to be carried. It's not weights, not even couches or big armchairs or refrigerators usually, but there's plenty of it, and after a bit his arms and shoulders ache regardless of how heavy the crap is, but he'll never improve if he doesn't try.

 

So, he tries; he runs, lifts shit, eats decent enough food, and finds himself feeling pretty jealous at times of Selina who's still as agile and strong as ever without seemingly putting forth any effort at all. But, at least he's better off than Bruce because he's not injured, and eventually he'll get back to what he was before The Occupation. Bruce sure won't. He was pretty rickety before, back when John went to see him at his big mansion, and he's even worse now.

 

Doesn't stop the guy from trying too, though. Midway through the second week, stitches not even out yet from the stab wound, Bruce comes walking out from the bedroom early one morning when John's stretching in the living room, getting ready for one of his runs.

 

"Up early," John says, and he holds his stretch the usual amount and then moves on to the next one, but they both know what's really going on. John can play subtle as much as he wants; he's still an amateur compared to Bruce. Guy takes monosyllabic to the next level. He's negative-syllabic. Whole speeches are conveyed in just the lift of Bruce's eyebrows, the minute curling of the corners of his mouth.

 

"Thought I'd join you," Bruce states, and, sure enough, he's dressed the part. Must be Selina's doing because John sure as hell doesn't own anything big enough to fit Bruce, and he didn't grab him any workout clothes, either.

 

Christ, between the two of them, they're the worst kind of enabler there is. John can't say no, and Selina doesn't even know the meaning of the word. And Bruce probably hasn't heard it in forever.

 

So, John finishes stretching then chews on the inside of his cheek for a bit before answering, debating what he should do against what he wants to.

 

He settles for saying, "Fine, but if you collapse or rip out those stitches, we're stopping, and you won't be coming along again until next week. Deal?"

 

Bruce nods, his mouth unsmiling and serious, but John's looking at his eyes, and they're crinkling at the corners and reassuringly bright and clear.

 

"Stretch," John then tells him with a wave at his legs. "It's cold out there. Don't want to add a pulled muscle to the list of injuries."

 

Bruce obligingly bends over, reaching for the floor and with only a slightly heavier exhale giving away the fact he's not feeling 100%. He glances up at John a couple minutes later, when he looks about done, and he says with a completely straight face, "List isn't that long. . . "

 

"My ass," John immediately responds. He watches Bruce slowly stand up straight, this time with no tell whatsoever, and he himself says with a completely straight face, "List was long _before_. Now, it's a fucking novel."

 

And that's when Bruce's weird side shows through because instead of arguing like anyone else would, he kind of smiles—kind of. Well, for Bruce, it's a smile.

 

"Let's hit the road," John says. He turns and heads for the door, and Bruce is right behind him.

 

Just takes one to know one.

 

***

 

It's more like jog-walking for the most part, but John doesn't feel the need to speed up the pace any. Bruce is pushing it as it is, and there's plenty of ice on the sidewalks and streets this morning. No need for one of them to sprain or break something.

 

At one point, they're waiting at the curb while three Army trucks, massive, heavy things, if the way they're riding low to the ground is any indication, pass by down the street. John keeps his head up because he knows, and, sure enough, can see from the corner of his eye, that Bruce can't. Instead, Bruce takes a knee and pretends to tie up his shoelace, and the Army guys drive right on past—no fuss, no muss. Bruce stands up again, and they resume the slow pace, and all's right with the world.

 

Except, now John's thinking about the big picture and how Bruce is going to go on living when he's supposedly dead. He's got no money. Any connections he'd had as Bruce Wayne are risky now, if not downright impossible to use. How much on the up-and-up had he been, though? There are gaps in his history, and the curious part of John perks up at the thought of another mystery to solve, another set of problems to address. He's always hated being idle, after all.

 

Fortunately, it's still pretty early, so not too many people are out and about yet, and whoever is is a resident of Oldtown and knows better than to look anywhere but where they're going. He glances at his wrist, sees it's barely past six, which means they've been going for about 45 minutes, so he slows to a walk and waits for Bruce to come up beside him. He's breathing heavy, sweating, and there's a tightness to his mouth and eyes, but John's bold enough to reach out and unzip the parka and look at Bruce's side, and there's no blood or seepage there. They're probably okay for today.

 

Then, he looks up at Bruce and gets a funny smile for his trouble.

 

"Anything else you'd like to look at?" Bruce asks, smirking.

 

"Not out here, no," Blake responds, zipping Bruce's coat back up and grinning at him as he takes a step away. "Clean-up's next, though. Should be fun."

 

Bruce makes a weird face again, definitely amused but something else too. Maybe it's surprise. Maybe he hadn't thought John was really on board for all this. Or maybe he's just thinking of what they can do, deciding what he's up for, running through a list. Maybe he'll be too tired for anything and is coming up with a way to let John down easy.

 

John about-faces and starts walking again. They're pretty much done for today, but now they have to go back to the apartment, which is a ways away still. He figures they'll take it slow on the return trip, head over to the smaller streets and avoid the big thoroughfares, move fast enough to keep the blood pumping and not go stiff, especially Bruce, but there's no real rush. Just two guys out for a morning walk, trying to get back some semblance of normality.

 

When Bruce catches up to him, syncing his steps flawlessly, John goes ahead and starts making small talk. Mostly, it's just to pass the time, but a little part of him is hoping Bruce will chime in with some real information, something true and secret about himself, some bit he's hidden from everyone else that John alone can know. He's maybe a little selfish like that.

 

"So, Selina's down the road," he says, waving an arm behind them in the direction they'd just come from, "and she thinks I don't know this, but she's been helping out at one of the shelters pretty regularly. I've been by there. It's looking pretty good, all things considered. The plumbing's probably the worst of it, but they've got everything else—food, heaters, people who know what the hell they're doing. One of the guys from my old precinct, Brady, he's down there every day, too. . . "

 

And so John just fills up the emptiness between them with miscellaneous crap. He shares whatever information he's been able to pick up on his turns around the neighborhood, even tells Bruce about the whole minor fiasco he and Selina had had the other day on their way back from the bunker out by the docks. He kind of gets a reaction to that but only because he's looking really hard for one. John practically stares at Bruce the whole walk back, looking for the tiniest flickers of emotion, winces, twitches, smirks, frowns.

 

It's not until he brings up the stitches and the fact that they'll either have to go down to the clinic to get them out, which isn't a good idea, or convince the doc to come back up to the apartment that Bruce really reacts.

 

And he _really_ reacts.

 

John's gesturing down the street to their left as they're getting ready to cross, telling Bruce, "It's about two and a half blocks that way, and it's always crowded. I've been there at night, morning, afternoon. I've gone past at freakin' two-thirty in the morning and at four-something, and there's always a line of some kind. Maybe they live there. I don't know. Some of the apartments aren't all that bad around here, you know—mostly those that were already kind of crappy and rundown to begin with, but now I bet they're looking pretty damn good! But, yeah, Elliot and the other docs and the nurse-types, they practically live there too. Hell, maybe they really do live there. It's not like there aren't beds to sleep in or places to wash up. That's actually a really good idea in the short term, you know– "

 

"Which one did you bring up—to see to me?" Bruce suddenly interrupts, stopping in his tracks. John stops too, looks over, and there's a huge frown on Bruce's face.

 

"Uh, Elliot," he says, and he's proud of how steady and nonchalant he sounds in the face of what appears to be Bruce's strong disapproval. Well, too bad. What else were they supposed to have done? Let him die of blood poisoning? "But, he's a decent enough guy," John goes on. "Great doctor. He was top of his class, still has the plaques to prove it." John raises his eyebrows a little, adds, "And if you give him half a chance, he'll show you the whole lot and brag your ear off."

 

Bruce is still frowning, and it's still really cold out, and they're both still just standing here like morons.

 

"What is it?" John finally asks, biting the bullet. He waits patiently for awhile, and then when Bruce doesn't answer, John presses. "Look, we didn't really have a whole helluva lot of options, okay? It was either a doctor or us, and we're okay with minor stuff, but I don't know how to stitch anyone up or treat fucking sepsis, and Selina didn't seem too keen to try her hand at it either, so a doctor's what you got." He takes a step closer to Bruce, who at least now is meeting his eyes, and he says quieter, "We got you the best we could under the circumstances. And this guy knows what he's doing. He treated the Commissioner."

 

But, that's apparently the wrong thing to say for some reason, as Bruce's face just goes blank as a slate. John thinks quickly, assumes it's to do with Gordon somehow getting wind of Bruce still being alive through Elliot, and he opens his mouth to address that fear, when Bruce beats him to it.

 

"Elliot," he repeats, and immediately John's adrenaline spikes because of how Bruce says the name. He's looking away now, over John's shoulder—down the road to where he'd earlier said the clinic was.

 

"Yeah. . . " John agrees, tense.

 

It's only another handful of seconds that pass, and then abruptly Bruce seems to deflate. He meets John's eyes again, and both the blank stare and the huge frown are gone from his face, and suddenly it's just Bruce in front of him once more—not Batman.

 

"I think I know someone better," Bruce then says, before turning and starting to walk again. He takes a right instead of continuing across, not heading up the street John had had in mind. And this one's on an incline, so it will be slower going and more effort, effort Bruce probably shouldn't be exerting right now.

 

But, isn't that just Bruce right there. Of course he wouldn't take the easy route. Of course he'd push himself for some stupid reason. It's probably personal, some goal he'd set before they'd even stepped out of the apartment, or maybe he's just giving John the finger, showing him who's really in charge here—and it ain't John.

 

He sighs and then starts after him, taking as long a stride as he can in order to catch up faster. Really, though, they're pretty well matched today, Bruce being taller but slower, John irritatingly short as hell but healthier and a damn sight quicker.

 

"So, who do you have in mind instead?" John asks, once he's pulled even with Bruce. "Hopefully, not some quack owing you a favor. . .  "

 

Bruce makes a noise suspiciously like repressed laughter, and John shoots him an astonished look, which he of course chooses to ignore. Business as usual then, even if they're still a little off. But, Bruce is smart. Surely, he's able to recognize the facts, and the facts are in John and Selina's favor. It was just a shitty situation, which they hopefully didn't make worse.

 

Hopefully.

 

"I don't even know if she's still around for sure," Bruce says, as they're nearing the top of the hill and the next intersection. They both look to make sure the way's clear and then step forward, and that's when Bruce continues, saying, as he and John match step for step across the deserted street, "But, if anyone's stubborn enough to stick around and keep the peace, it's Leslie."

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

What someone doesn't know won't necessarily not hurt them, but it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier to get things done, especially when the someone in question is Bruce, who's clearly a control freak of the highest order. Besides, Selina's not accustomed to having to think about anyone else when making important decisions. She's been the center of her universe for years now, almost a decade. All this with Bruce and John, it's going to take some time to get used to, time the universe will of course never give them. She wonders if this is how all those people who marry during wars feel, like there's only so much happiness out there for everyone, one big communal pot, and damned if she's going to let her share slip through her fingers and land in someone else's lap.

 

Because who the hell knows how long this is going to last? How long are they, the three of them, going to last? Bruce dies and comes back, like, every six months, and Selina's already on her fourth alias. John's reinvented himself at least once that they know of. And people die all the time in Gotham. People die all the time everywhere else too, but Gotham itself is like a black hole.

 

They need to leave, get out, escape while they still have all their body parts and are relatively sane. Holly'd had the right idea—just take off with whatever's handy and never look back. And Selina can't blame her for that. She'd wanted to, had tried, had gone through the motions, but mostly it was just jealousy and admiration. _"That little bitch,"_ she'd said a lot back then, and it was proud. Kid had had guts.

 

So, Selina's getting them sorted—without anyone else's input. She's got the money issue covered, now that Gotham's finally connected to the outside world again. A nice little nest egg's waiting for the three of them once they get off this fucking island. And she still has her contacts, even after burning her identity. The necessary people still know she's active, not on the market anymore but definitely not down for the count. All that's left now is to convince Bruce it's past time they made their exit—that, or drug him, get John's help in schlepping the big lug onto the airplane, and take off into the sunset.

 

Come a repeat of hell, high water, or Bruce throwing another non-temper tantrum, they are out of here next Thursday, or rather Irena Dubrovna, Grey Hemingford, and Todd Richards—or Caroline Hill, depending on the circumstances—are out of here.

 

But, there's still plenty to do before then, and a big part of that is swaying Bruce, and what that entails is setting the stage, so to speak, presenting him the best picture of both Gotham and anywhere else _but_ Gotham in the hopes he'll recognize he's no longer needed here. That basically boils down to cleaning up the mess the best she can in the space of 9 days, and it's a lot harder than it sounds, and it already sounds impossible.

 

She's determined, though. No leaving anything behind, no sacrifices, not this time. She can be the bad guy if she has to, the scapegoat, the traumatized damsel, whatever's necessary, but they're not going to die here, and if they stay—that will happen, sooner, not later.

 

Money: check. Means: check. Papers: check, check, check (and check). That leaves the Amends portion, and so she starts with Gordon because he's the easiest. It's the work of a couple hours after having done her due diligence. She doesn't even have to fabricate anything, just assemble the parts, haul it up, and then carry away the rusted pieces already there. Should work like a charm.

 

Next, she sorts out the Narrows—well, attempts to anyway. There are clinics now, and she and some others, mostly cops and former military of course, beef up the security. There used to be protocol for things like hostage situations and natural disasters, but most of the staff who'd have known those procedures and drills are long gone, probably in the first wave of The Occupation. Do-gooders are almost always the first to go, seem to practically volunteer for it. There are a couple whom she's stumbled upon, purely by accident, who are still around and taking care of things, practical types who know when to keep their heads down and hands busy. Thompkins alternates between Oldtown and the Narrows, and she's one tough broad, has no problem running things and telling people what to do. Selina likes her almost immediately. Burke is up in Midtown, and he's mousier, more of a quiet yuppy, but he's still all there and willing, now at least, to step up and take control. She could break him in a few hours, get him back together inside a week, and have him hard as nails by the end of the month, but there just isn't that kind of time. He'll have to do.

 

The nurses and staff, though, might present a few problems. She and Brady, one of Gordon's lost sheep and a guy who, turns out, knows John from way back, check into some shady staff at one of Doc Thompkins' Narrows clinics. They come up with two former residents of Blackgate and one Arkham escapee, as well three or four other personnel of somewhat dubious character, ranging from known gang and mafia connections to past felony convictions all the way up to the more recent cases of suspiciously dropped criminal charges. Thompkins is pissed but pleased with their work. Selina and Brady look into a few more clinics, and some of his buddies do the same for others, including both Doc Burke and that asshole over in Oldtown, Elliot.

 

The true test turns out to be what the doctors and staff do once the jig is up and everything's out in the open. Thompkins gives everyone a little lecture, and, by the end of the next day, six people have left, four more have signed on, and everyone's given something of a clean slate. Gordon's got himself another weirdo from Arkham to take back and two more thugs Bane and his posse had let out. Meanwhile, there are guys like Creedy, who for instance 19 years ago did 10 for B & E and Assault against his wife of the time, and they surprisingly become model employees. It kind of makes Selina smile a little. Some folks flourish in bad times, some flounder. Maybe all he'd needed was a chance, and in this new shithole that Gotham's become Doug Creedy got one.

 

Doc Burke too runs mostly clean operations, some gray characters here and there but nothing dangerous. The "background checks" flush out the worst, and whoever sticks around, well, is probably going to stick around. Selina makes the introductions between Doctors Thompkins and Burke and is pretty happy with the result. Someone's got a new puppy to boss around, and Burke stands not a chance against the freight train that is Leslie Thompkins' will. It's a match made in medicine heaven.

 

Then, there's Elliot. She leaves him to Brady, washes her hands of it. That guy himself is shadier than shady. Hopefully, she's wrong, and he's just a typical surgeon with an ego the size of Texas and no bedside manner to speak of, but that's not likely. Her instincts are good, and even John had gotten the willies from Elliot. She wonders what Bruce will think of him, assuming he'll wait to have the stitches in his side taken out and not just bypass that step and remove them himself.

 

When the houses of healing are themselves clean, she goes back to a favorite pastime of hers—bounty hunting. The crooks at Thompkins' are just the start because those chuckleheads were harmless compared to what else is now free, roaming the streets and alleys of Gotham at all hours, stealing, destroying, murdering. The Commish has his hands busy evidently, liaising between everyone out there and everyone still in here, and his men and women are, well, they're decent at what they do. She can admit that. They're trying, and it helps knowing John and seeing now what being a cop in this city really means, what it used to mean before, and during, The Occupation.

 

In the process of reducing Gotham's overabundance of freaks, there are a few— _incidents_ between her and these hardworking officers of the peace, and a few times, when she gets back to the apartment after one of her turns around the neighborhood, John gives her this _look_.

 

One time, it's when Bruce is in the bathroom, showering and shaving, and John's got actual bread and honey and fruit on the table. No butter, no milk, no sugar, but honey's just as good, and fruit is—fruit is incredible. The peaches are small, just bordering on under ripe, and divine.

 

But, there's John, Mr. Disapproval, and he's just standing there, ruining the moment with his raised eyebrows and downturned mouth.

 

"What?" she finally challenges, making a grab for another peach but getting slapped by John when she's not quick enough.

 

"Wait," he says, jerking his head towards the bathroom and by extension Bruce. So they're going to have a meal, right—a nice family breakfast? How charming. Meanwhile, she hasn't eaten anything since yesterday morning, and that was cereal with water, and there wasn't much of it to eat.

 

"I'm fucking starving here," she hisses back, making another grab, but this time John just takes the whole bowl of fruit away. He sets it behind him on the kitchen counter and squares his shoulders like he's preparing for a fight.

 

"You can hold out another five minutes," John then tells her, and that note of smugness in his voice is extremely irritating.

 

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one out there for hours on end, running down freaks in four-inch heels!"

 

Even as she's saying it, she's inwardly slapping herself in the face for being so careless. _Shut your goddamn mouth, Kyle! You're going to blow it, and the guy's less than 50 feet away down the hall_.

 

John, for his part, is shocked into silence for a good 30 seconds after her little outburst, finally coming back with a droll, "The freaks were in four-inch heels, or you were?"

 

"Oh, you're a riot!" she responds, and he just smiles, visibly relaxing for a moment before tilting his head and looking at her more closely. There's the _look_ again, the knowing kind. It's not a cop look. In fact, it's the reverse of a cop look.

 

"What are you up to, Selina?" he suddenly asks, and it's quiet, and it's also one of the few times he's called her by her first name.

 

It's always Kyle. Does this mean something?

 

Probably.

 

He comes back to the table, takes a seat in the chair to her left, and she just looks at him—this kid, this little tough guy with the big chip on his shoulder. He's not abrasive, certainly not like she is, but he's not smooth either. John should've been a PI, one of those guys from the noir stories, always getting his man, always saving the dame and strolling off by himself. He just seems out of place here.

 

"I'm just doing my part, John," she eventually says, and his eyes go narrow when she says his name. Tit for tat.

 

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

 

"Oh, stop worrying," she tells him, pushing her chair back and, quick as you please, slipping around him and over to the unattended bowl of actually pretty pathetic fruit. He gives an audible sigh when she snatches up another peach, and as she turns around, already taking a huge bite, he's looking at her over his shoulder.

 

"You're determined," he remarks, mouth quirked up in a little half-smile. Selina nods and then considers again what he just said. It could just be about the peach, just something superficial like that, but it's not. The tone's wrong, for starters. He sounds tired, too tired and nervous for some casual observation about her general lack of patience.

 

And it's John, and every word he says pulls double duty. His sentences are loaded, and he doesn't even say all that much really.

 

She finally decides she'd better respond, not just leave his comment hanging out there awkwardly, so it's, "I prefer tenacious," which she punctuates with another bite from the peach.

 

John just turns his head back around and nods at the tabletop. Then, he does something strange and actually lets that cool exterior of his crack a little. He heaves a big sigh, and, from where she's standing behind him, she sees him run his hands over his hair and then down his face. His voice muffled by his hands, it sounds like a confession when he says quietly, "Just be careful. Promise you won't do anything. . . " He trails off, and she wonders what he'd originally intended to say.

 

Excessive? Wrong? Really illegal?

 

Selina finishes chewing and swallows too quickly, the peach like a lump in her throat. "Hey," she says, her voice just as quiet as John's, "I don't have a death wish, unlike some other people around here. I take precautions."

 

Again, John nods, but he doesn't seem reassured. Of course, she's only judging from what she can see of him from behind, but posture says a lot about a person. And John doesn't normally slump.

 

So Selina walks back to the table and resumes her seat next to him, and the look on his face proves her right. He's got this hound dog expression, all big eyes and pouting mouth, and she's actually somewhat taken aback. He's sad and worried, visibly so, and about her, about what she's doing, which he's no doubt heard all about from his cop buddies. This feels significant somehow, this moment, and he's a good guy. He cares about people and does a lot, goes out of his way a lot, to help out, and he doesn't get a kick out of being a hero. John isn't in it for the accolades.

 

He's just—a nice guy, and he cares. He cares what happens to her. Selina carefully sets down the half-eaten peach on the table and, meeting John's eyes, reaches over and snags one of his wrists, pulling it towards her and away from where he has his hands interlocked in front of his face. Then, she kind of smiles at him, feeling awkward and uncertain, and he smiles back after a few seconds.

 

He turns his wrist in her hold, his hand sneaking underneath her own to grip her wrist in turn.

 

"Feels like something's coming," he says, whispers, and the hair on the back of her neck stands up. She feels goose bumps on her arms, and a shiver slides across her shoulder blades.

 

"Well," she says, and it sounds too loud and cheery, but she's not going to let them fall into this trap of anxiety and fear, "it can't be any worse than what's already here."

 

John looks at her steadily, and eventually he nods a little and fakes a small smile, but his eyes don't lie, and his hand's cold around her wrist.

 

***

 

She rounds 107th and Pike, slowing briefly at the corner to make sure the way's clear and he hasn't stopped to ambush her, and then pushes on again. It's uphill this way, but she's not on top of her game enough to take an alternate route to try to outrun him. And she doesn't even know where he's going, not for sure, so she can't risk losing him by going the wrong way.

 

He's fast, really fucking fast, and he's been steadily outpacing her for three blocks. Everything's against her right now, but she's not giving up. Period. Maybe if it were someone else, some low-level enforcer or sleazebag, she wouldn't be going to this much trouble by herself. Some other goon, she'd stop and hunt down Brady and tell him or just spread the word around the area herself. Keep your kids and belongings close tonight, folks. There's another psycho on the loose, and he's armed!

 

No time, though. She's running out of options. Her feet were already aching, but now they and her ankles and her calves and thighs are screaming bloody murder at her. Feels like her body's pumping acid, and she knows she's breathing too fast.

 

God, crazies should not be in this good a shape. Why isn't he like everyone else in this town and worn down, malnourished, and approaching emaciated? Fucking rabbity bastard!

 

Up ahead, Zsasz rounds another corner, this time going left, and only when she reaches the top of the hill is she able to see it's an alley.

 

 _"You're determined,"_ John had said, and when she doesn't slow down, just keeps going, runs right into the darkness between two rundown tenements, Selina realizes he hadn't meant "determined."

 

Rash, reckless, foolish.

 

Fucking stupid.

 

Ten feet maybe, and then something big and narrow and heavy hits her in the right shoulder, and she goes down like a sack of bricks. Shoulder socket, she thinks suddenly, and she's not screaming but moaning, groaning. Laughter farther down the alley, and she drops all the way flat against the ground just as whatever weapon comes swinging past again. She can feel it brush the top of her head.

 

"Those are some beautiful locks of love," she hears, and it echoes around the alley, the words "of love" repeating and repeating and repeating. Or maybe she's in shock.

 

There's still no time. Get up; something's coming. _"Feels like something's coming."_

 

She rolls sideways, and the bat, crowbar, 2x4, whatever, slams into the wet concrete right where she'd been. Twisting a little, she gets some momentum and swings her legs along the ground, catching whoever it is, Zsasz or the second guy, right in the ankles. He goes down, and she is getting up. She is getting out of the puddle of whatever it is on the ground and running on these motherfucking razor heeled boots like they're the best tennis shoes money can buy. She's getting up. She's up, up, up, and she takes off, and she's jerked back by her head.

 

The hair is going after this. It's toast. She's so sick of being tugged around by her hair like it's a leash.

 

She can't prevent a startled yelp, and the asshole who's got her makes a weird sound of pleasure, almost like a purr or moan of appreciation, and this is sick. He's not dragging her, though, just hanging onto her, one hand fisting her hair and the other jabbing something very sharp into her side, low, lower back.

 

"No need to be so rough," she says, trying for steady and nearly achieving it. He doesn't even twitch, though, no reaction at all. "I can't even see anything," she adds, quickly, "pitch black, as it is. . . "

 

"Mmm," is the response, and it's not dubious or angry. It's– it's cheerful, _happy_.

 

"Fucking slit her throat," says the other guy, the one still down on the ground, and she knows that's Zsasz now, recognizes his voice. That's him, on the ground.

 

Who. . . ?

 

Oh, God. Her brain instantly spits out the worst-case scenario, and she wishes the shock were still around, making her stupid and slow and not—because the worst-case isn't even all that far-fetched.

 

"Such a waste, I think," says this guy, right into her ear, and he's plastered onto her back, his chin hooked over her shoulder, the fucking knife burning as it's pressed into the leather of her suit. He's going to stab her if he gets much closer. Then, abruptly, she can feel him twist his head around and yell, "Self-control, isn't that what I'm always saying? The world is your oyster, but you're down in the muck. Oh, what are you _moaning_ about?"

 

Selina tries not to struggle, tries not to breathe too hard, lest that knife slip forward. But then he's back, says, "Apologies, my feline friend," like he's savoring the words, rolling them around in his mouth like strange marbles. "My compatriot here, you see, he lacks the proper, heh, state of mind for male-female interaction." Closer, and he's breathing in her ear again, but the knife's gone. "I suspect the father, myself," he whispers, and his breath catches like he's laughing, like it's a dirty little secret between the two of them, "something about the way he eats so much sausage!" And then he's laughing outright, shrill and loud right in her ear, but he pushes her away suddenly, and it's not down towards the ground but forward, out. . .

 

She still stumbles, goes to catch herself on one of the tenement's walls and remembers at the last second to twist so it's her left arm and left shoulder getting the weight—not her right, fuck, the right. It's crushed.

 

"Fucking bitch!" Zsasz screams, but the laughter continues, and then there's the thudding sound of a fist or a foot or an elbow meeting flesh, and the gasping, desperate, wheezing of someone exhaling in a hurry.

 

She gets up, gets up and runs all the way back home, tail between her legs.

 

She's—determined.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

They're mostly fleeting, moments like this. In real time, spread out flat like the page of an atlas, it's only a few hours between when they get inside the apartment and when everything goes to hell—again. But, it's not that simple, and it's difficult to categorize, and, like everything, nothing is as it seems.

 

John has the keys, and he unlocks the door, but Bruce crowds him, standing too far inside John's personal space to be ignored or downplayed. Then, John swings the door open, but, instead of walking in, he turns, looks over his shoulder, and smirks—and Bruce pushes him forward with the palm of his hand, closing and re-locking the heavy door behind them, sealing them inside, if only for a little while.

 

His memory is good, and he's almost always able to reconstruct events with few to no gaps, replay and examine them and pick them apart into tiny, miniscule pieces that, by themselves, are almost meaningless. Sometimes, it's painful. Sometimes, that's just the way of things.

 

This moment won't be like that, though, not at all—light on the bitter with the sweet like heavy cream in his mouth, coating everything, a backwash that paints it all shades lighter than it really was, a smooth glaze on reality that makes him think to himself at one point, clear as day, " _But, it's led me here, now. . ._ "

 

John makes to head to the bedroom, but Bruce steers him towards the bathroom instead. He hates that bed, and he'd have John on the floor if he weren't such a wreck himself, but water is splitting the difference. Under water, everything seems cleaner and brighter, happier maybe. He'd like them to be happy.

 

John's easy to strip. His coat and shoes and socks disappear like a magic trick, his shirt coming off with just raised arms and his pants sliding down slowly, pushed down with index fingers, thumbs, and that smirk again—a striptease just for him, and Bruce smiles.

 

He's more difficult. Getting himself undressed these days often requires a stationary position and a second pair of hands, which right now runs the risk of somewhat killing the mood. There's still the bandage to worry about and, after the "run," the modestly repaired brace as well. So, by tacit agreement, they wait until they're inside the bathroom itself, and then Bruce leans back against the sink and vanity, and John stands in front of him.

 

"Let's get you undressed, Mr. Wayne," he says, and it's deadpan, making Bruce cock up an eyebrow. So that's how he's going to play it?

 

"Thank you, Nurse Blake," he replies in the same blank tone of voice, apparently catching John off guard because he snorts—before dropping to his knees and going to work on Bruce's shoes. It's impossible to resist, so he offers quietly, "While you're down there. . . "

 

John just huffs out another laugh, shaking his head as his fingers unknot the laces. Then, it's a tug to Bruce's left, a tug to his right, shoes and socks pulled off and flung away, and suddenly John's fingers are curled around the elastic waistband of the pants Bruce is wearing, and he's on the floor kneeling, completely nude, and still smirking.

 

That one's going in the memory bank, that moment like a snapshot.

 

"See if we can't get you into something a little more comfortable," John says, and it's light but quiet. Then, with one careful pull of his hands, he strips Bruce from the waist down completely—well, almost completely. His eyes a foot too low for Bruce's liking, John says, voice suddenly too loud in the small space, "What the hell is that?"

 

"Just a knee brace."

 

John's eyes dart up to his face, his eyebrows high and his mouth compressed into a thin line of—what, disapproval, confusion? Bruce isn't positive what all is encapsulated in that expression, just that's it overwhelmingly unfavorable. And it'd been going so well.

 

John drops his eyes, stares at the brace a couple seconds more, and then comes to some sort of a decision because he pushes lightly on first Bruce's left leg, getting him to lift his foot so the pants and underwear can be pulled away, and then his right.

 

"So, does it come off?" John then asks, and it's a completely different reaction than Bruce had anticipated, had readied himself to address and navigate around.

 

It catches him by surprise, a little.

 

"Yeah," he eventually answers, "it can but doesn't have to." Again, John's looking up and meeting his eyes, so Bruce adds, "Sure makes standing and walking a hell of a lot easier." John apparently hears the unspoken " _as well as other activities_ " after that because he cracks another smile and gets back up on his feet.

 

"Glad to hear it," he then offers Bruce, equal parts sincere and teasing. Next, though, it's the battle of the shirt, and there's no adrenaline now to soften the strain and stress of lifting his arms, and bending forward presents its own set of problems, namely residual pain from his back and unwanted pressure on the stab wound. They've got a system though, and not for the first time Bruce thinks he really needs to get some shirts that zip, button, or snap up the front, just so they don't have to go through this every time he wants to change clothes.

 

John carefully rolls the bottom of the shirt up until it's just below Bruce's arms and shoulder blades, and then, as Bruce ducks his head, John quickly pulls the shirt forward towards himself, over and off, and then he slides it down Bruce's arms—no fuss, no muss, just a little dent in his pride and vanity, but that never really hurt anyone. Bruce has no delusions about the state he's in, physically, can't afford to.

 

He could still, even as he is, take down just about anybody, many people if it came right down to it. He might not make it out alive afterward or be able to move, but he can do it. And, with the way things are going, it's likely to come to that.

 

Bruce reaches out, slides his arm around John's waist, his hand low on his back. He pulls him closer, and John lets himself be led, moved. It becomes almost a game between them. Bruce next stands up straight, sliding to the side and walking backwards to the tub, tugging John along with him. He reaches back behind and fumbles for the knobs, cranking the left for any hot water there might be in the building. And there is, shockingly enough, steam bursting up around them like a smoke machine.

 

"Wait," John says suddenly, a hand on Bruce's waist just below the hole there. His palm feels heavier, hotter than normal, significant. "Should wrap that up. Not supposed to get stitches wet, right?"

 

Bruce pulls him closer, and he has to bend down just a little, just a few inches. It's easy to kiss John, easier still to make it count, give it meaning and feeling. It's always easier and simpler without words. Bruce just kind of hates talking; it needlessly complicates things.

 

Warm, slick with sweat and steam, smooth and scarred and pocked, hard and unforgiving, and Bruce doesn't make him work for it, just gives everything he can, pulls him along.

 

"It's fine," he eventually says, responding to John's distracted attempt at taking care of him. "They're due out in a couple days. Water won't hurt them now." Then he dives back in for more, just as he drags his arms up to John's shoulders and braces himself there enough to step back into the tub. The hot water is already disappearing slowly but surely. No more steam, but there's still some warmth to it. He's connected to John just with his mouth and his hands, and when John goes to climb in the tub with Bruce, he slips a little, his left foot sliding along the porcelain.

 

"Fuck!" John says, pulling back with a deep laugh that covers his whole face, his entire body, making him loose and relaxed and sloppy, showing that he's. . . 

 

It's uncomfortable and foolish, but nonetheless Bruce quickly pulls John forward and spins him around, pushing him back against the cracked and slightly mildewed tile of Selina's shower—and, Christ, she's going to just laugh her head off when she gets back and sees them—and then he reaches back and slides the rolling shower door shut with a muted bang. He presses himself flush against John and just takes everything, his mouth, his hands, his cock, his leg between Bruce's own. He takes it and keeps it and locks it all away to unfurl again some other moment when it will seem like he has all the time in the world.

 

John grabs him, just locks his hand firmly around Bruce's dick and slides, pulls, tugs, and that's a great idea, so he braces himself against the wall with one arm and finds John with the other. The difference in height works to John's advantage then because he latches onto Bruce's neck with his mouth, lips, definitely teeth, and all Bruce can do is pant into John's hair and twist a little on the down stroke with his hand.

 

"Oh, Jesus," John breathes into his neck, and that's hilarious for some reason, so Bruce smiles and waits, waits, waits and does it again a few seconds later. John's left hand, the one not currently busy manhandling Bruce's cock, is resting against Bruce's back, and it was okay for a little while, but he finds it distracting the longer it stays there, low, unmoving, light—too careful. It bugs him, so he shifts his weight slightly from his right leg to his left, and John must get the hint because he moves his hand higher up around Bruce's shoulder and then his neck, and then John's pulling Bruce's face down, not so he can kiss him—just to look him in the eye as he comes in a burst of wet heat over Bruce's hand.

 

It was fast, and now it's slow, and Bruce closes his eyes when he gets close. It just rolls right over him, nice and smooth, and he lets his forehead fall against John's as he simply lets go.

 

"Fucking hot water," is the first thing either of them says afterward, and it's John, and that's when Bruce notices that, yes, the last traces of warmth are long gone, and what's left is fast approaching glacial in temperature.

 

Bruce says back, "Soap," and John gives him this look like he's insane and irritating and adorable all at once. And Bruce smiles back.

 

***

 

Hours later, John's left to go check things around the neighborhood, and Bruce is working on some modifications to the equipment John and Selina had retrieved from the bunker out at the docks, when there's suddenly a knock on the front door of the apartment.

 

Bruce gets up from the floor in front of the sofa and coffee table, careful to avoid stepping on any of the pieces laying around. Just before he makes it to the door, the knocking abruptly starts again, and that tells him a few things—clearly impatient, obviously not John or Selina, likely someone young, perhaps one of the boys from the home John looks out for.

 

And when Bruce actually peers out the peephole, a combination of strange feelings rises up. Two young boys at the door he's unlocking and answering makes him think of John and Alfred, and it's almost wistful.

 

He would have loved taking care of John.

 

Bruce pulls the door in and studies the boys a little, and they seem to study him in return.

 

"Yes?" he then asks politely, when neither opens his mouth to say anything.

 

"Uh," and that's the one on Bruce's left, medium height, maybe 10 or 11, pale, smart eyes, "is John here?"

 

What's going on? If these two aren't messengers from John but are instead looking for him, why come here? Or, alternatively, who is the sender if not John?

 

Bruce has a very bad feeling about this.

 

"No," he says in response to the kid's question, "I'm afraid he's out in the neighborhood somewhere." Bruce waits a moment, watching as their expressions fall and they shift from one foot to the other, and then he adds, just in case this is a test of _him_ , of this mysterious guy answering the door they'd expected John to answer, "Have you tried any of the shelters yet? I'm sure people actually out there have a better idea than I where John's helping out."

 

Judging from the way the second kid looks at the first, Bruce passes the test, but there's still some kind of problem because they're not leaving. They are, in fact, now looking closer at Bruce—and that is not good. This is a beautiful example of why he shouldn't answer the door.

 

He needs some sort of disguise. . .

 

"Was there something else?" Bruce then asks, moving the door open a little more in a mild show of trustworthiness—not too far because with these two that would likely send up predator vibes but just a couple inches wider, enough so he doesn't look like he's trying to hide most of his face behind the wood.

 

"Well, uh, yeah," says Boy Number One, and he's fidgety but meets Bruce's eyes a couple times, "we're s'posed to tell John here, uh." He shares another look with his friend then goes on, saying, "She was pretty clear on that." Back to looking at Bruce, the apparent spokesman of the two thankfully clarifies, telling him, "We're s'posed to tell John Blake at this address because he'll be here, but if he's not, then I don't know. . . " He finishes with a shrug.

 

Bruce blinks then smiles, relaxing his body and leaning against the doorframe. "Selina sent you, right?" he is careful to ask, not state. He's already certain, but if they're smart, then these two are still suspicious of him, and sometimes being harmless is faster and easier than being terrifying. Not to mention, they're two _kids_.

 

Sure enough, both laughably release huge sighs of relief, and Bruce just nods in agreement. The next part's tricky, though. He can't seem too eager, but if he plays it wrong. . .

 

"If it makes you feel any better," he says with a slight smirk, "I won't tell if you go find John and give him the message wherever he's at." He waits a beat then adds, "Selina can be a hardass sometimes. . . " And it's all about the tone of voice. He thinks he pulled it off, but then these are not only kids but likely street kids, maybe not even John's. Maybe Selina has her own set of underage runners.

 

Bruce is again reminded of why solitude is so much easier. There's none of this constant planning and playacting when it's just him and Alfred. And he's grown almost spoiled here with Selina and John, hasn't had to mask or fake anything since they started this almost two weeks ago.

 

He keeps looking at the boys, and they keep looking at him, and this is the deciding moment. To them, does he look like someone Selina trusts, or is he another in a slew of bad guys? Maybe he's the guy Selina'd been trying to avoid in getting them to go to John first. Maybe he hits Selina or, Christ, maybe these kids are thinking Bruce is her pimp. Maybe he's a cop or a dirty cop or a mark she's blackmailing. Waiting here, waiting while these children assess him is less nerve-wracking though than frustrating and—worrisome.

 

Why is it she hadn't just come herself? What's keeping her away? It's nearing dusk, less than an hour away, and Selina sends out two kids, never mind how capable or clever they may be, instead of coming herself. This is serious, and Bruce doesn't think they have time for games like these where he puts on his bland, safe, innocent front and tries to trick a couple of kids into seeing he's not the same garbage they're used to encountering around here.

 

He wants to quit the act, but can he afford to? If he pushes it too far, they'll just run off and tell John, and it could very well be hours until Bruce finds out what the hell is going on and what's happened to Selina.

 

The two boys are trying to communicate with each other silently with a series of nods and jerks of the head and exaggerated facial expressions, but when Boy Number One finally turns back to look at him—he drops the mask.

 

"What's happened?" he asks them point-blank, and as he'd expected they're a little taken aback by the change but not nearly as much as some would be, he'd wager. It's hard to resist analyzing them, checking the columns and figuring them out. Normally, it'd be something to distract himself with while he fakes nice, a way to keep his mind busy so this exact scenario doesn't occur.

 

"She, uh," and this time it's Boy Number Two, darker, shorter, quieter. He's the one to watch out for, and he's looking at Bruce a certain way that probably isn't safe for either of them, but it's Bruce's own fault. "She got hurt," he says. "Doc said it was just some jerks tryin' for scares, but– but I don't think so." He swallows, still meeting Bruce's eyes steadily.

 

"You don't think so, huh?" he repeats, letting his breath out slowly. He's still leaning against the doorframe of the apartment, but neither kid is fooled, and it's a lost cause anyway, so he straightens up into a more comfortable stance. "Doesn't happen that often, does it?" he asks, rhetorically. Then he huffs a laugh, thinking of a certain party where a certain someone stole something of his right in front of him—again. "Usually, she's the one coming out on top." He waits a second, saying, "Am I right?"

 

Both kids nod, the second one before the first, and now it's crunch time. "She was hurt? By whom? Where? Where can I find this scumbag?"

 

It's a risk but a calculated one. He's shown he knows her, knows John, is comfortable hanging around her place when she's not here, and is concerned and angry about what's happened, whatever that might be exactly. Details will come later. Right now, these kids know something, and he's going to find out what.

 

"She's over at Doc Thompkins'," Boy Number One confides, "that one near the train on, uh," and he looks at Boy Number Two for help.

 

"110th," Boy Number Two supplies quietly.

 

"And what exactly is the message you're supposed to give John?" he asks, going in for the kill.

 

They look at him, and it's scary what he sees there.

 

"Said to," and here the first boy uses air quotes, which are never not absurdly amusing, "'keep a close eye on the place. Bad guys in the neighborhood.'"

 

He drops his eyes down. The boys are both wearing tennis shoes, and they're not damp, not even the soles, and they've also got coats but not especially heavy ones and with no hats or gloves. The light is vanishing outside; night's all but here.

 

"Thank you," he finally says, ignoring Boy Number Two opening his mouth to say something or ask a question he doesn't want to answer. "You should get back now, though—not safe out there."

 

Then he pushes the door closed and turns around and goes into Selina's bedroom and over to the safe she keeps tucked back in her closet. He taps in the combination sequence, pulls open the door of the safe, and the parts are still there waiting for him.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Those fucking tanks of Bruce's sure come in handy now, doing what they were originally built to do—create bridges. Here, it's really more a case of rebuilding bridges, and right now it's just the one, but the fact is those Tumblers are dead useful. Nice they're on the good side again.

 

People in Gotham have selective memory loss now when it comes to certain things, and the Bat is certainly one of them. 'Don't speak ill of the dead' and all that, and whenever Gordon's crew or the folks around the shelters get that sad guilty look on their faces, John has to fake it back to them in response and feel some genuine sad guilt of his own. It's a big fucking lie he and Selina are telling every single day, and it burns going down—and coming back up.

 

But, he doesn't have to like it. Betraying Gotham in this way is a white lie, and telling would mean betraying Bruce, and that wouldn't be anything near as benign or compassionate as a white lie. That would just be betrayal, and John doesn't do that—not to strangers, not if he can help it, and not to people he knows and cares about and certainly not to. . . 

 

He just doesn't do that. It's wrong, but the thing is, by lying to Gotham about Bruce and the fact he was Batman and the fact he's still alive and still as messed up as ever, he's doing the exact same thing that Bruce and Gordon did eight fucking years ago and for the exact same reasons. He's doing it for Bruce, but he's doing it for them too, for himself, for Selina, for Gordon and Fox and Pennyworth and everyone else who knew what was going on and didn't do anything but take take take. The Batman is a hero forever now. It almost feels like a crime to risk ruining that by explaining—the sacrifices made, the debt every single person in this city owes, the horrible, disgusting truth of it all.

 

John's continually surprised he hasn't developed an ulcer or had some kind of stress-related breakdown. He gets headaches but nothing out of the ordinary. He's steadily putting back on some much needed weight, and so he doesn't look quite so much like a homeless teenager as he had. He's not lonely or swamped, and yet carrying around this secret is exhausting, frustrating, and just overall horrible.

 

How did they manage it for eight years? How did Gordon _do_ this? John figured it out, yeah, but it wasn't the same. What he'd managed to work out was a sliver of the whole picture, one piece of a 1,000.

 

He's seen Gordon a couple more times since the incident with Selina and the bike coming back from the bunker out at the docks, and they said their hellos and shook hands and griped some, but the strain is still there and likely always will be. John can't believe the lengths Gordon went to in order to play along with Bruce's martyr complex, and Gordon resents having to justify what he still evidently strongly believes was the right thing to do.

 

And, meanwhile, John's a big ol' fat hypocrite, lying through his goddamn teeth every time someone mentions how tragic it is that the Batman died without even receiving any gratitude for all he'd done or an apology for the awful way he'd been treated all that time.

 

'He won't accept any apology,' John wants to say. 'He doesn't think like that. You'd be wasting your breath.'

 

He'd told Selina that this is his 'just desserts' for refusing to understand the position the Commissioner had been in. She'd looked at him and asked how he thought _she_ felt, and he'd dropped it. That's something, at least. John hasn't betrayed Bruce, not in that sense, not yet. He may be aiding and abetting in terms of this stupid martyr thing Bruce has going, but technically nothing John has done has caused direct harm to come to the man.

 

Again, not yet anyway because he's not fool enough to believe they're out of the woods. If Gotham's taught him anything, it's that something too good to be true is always too good to be true.

 

And nothing lasts. Something's always gotta give.

 

***

 

People start coming back into the city, and finally successfully escaping it, 13 days after The Occupation, after what John refers to in his head as people coming to 'love the bomb.' Who knows the long-term effects of that explosion, of all that radiation going up a scant six miles off the nearest coast of the city?  Maybe they're all fucked anyway, Chernobyl-style, and kids conceived during the celebratory mood of today will come out even more fucked. Maybe cancer rates in the next ten years will skyrocket. For sure, though, therapists are going to be making millions for the foreseeable future—not billions, though, because of all the unlucky rich neurotics who died. That's likely half the cost of reconstruction lost right there. But, medical and tech people are in high demand, engineers too. Lawyers are already making a killing, attempting to sort out everything.

 

That's part of what the Commissioner had talked to him about a few days ago. Priorities first, and evidently a certain fucking someone is high up on that list of priorities, and another person connected to that certain fucking someone is now demanding he be let inside not just the 'former' estate, but also anywhere around the city he damn well feels like going. It's causing quite the ruckus too because this person evidently gave a number of interviews to the media during The Occupation, whilst living safely abroad, and in these interviews he also made it a point to repeatedly remark on how badly run Gotham's been for decades, the corruption, the inefficiency, the danger. 'Mortal peril on every corner,' Gordon quotes for him. Never mentioned any specific incident; never fucking had to. Everyone knows; everyone got it.

 

It has, to use Gordon's own unique turn of phrase, 'turned a national and personal catastrophe into a city-wide free pass.' And John can't say it's a flawed assessment of the situation, but he also understands what motivated the old guy into saying all that he evidently said, and, Christ, is John glad to exercise his right to avoid catching up on all those interviews. Bad enough Gordon's roped him into playing chauffer and welcome wagon to Alfred Pennyworth when he arrives. Reading what the guy had said while stuck a thousand miles away from the man he'd essentially raised, and who he now mistakenly believes is dead, is not something John ever wants to do.

 

It just gets worse and worse. He can't even decide what to do with regard to Bruce. He can't tell him, surely, but what happens if he doesn't, and then Bruce finds out some other way that his former legal guardian, surrogate father, caretaker, and friend is back in the city and confronts John, and all John will be able to say as justification for lying to him is, 'Well, maybe I didn't want you to be hurt again. Maybe I care about you too much.'

 

He doesn't even know Pennyworth, after all, and he barely knows Fox, and his take on Gordon wasn't ever really accurate, as it turned out. He doesn't owe them anything, certainly not the truth he can't and won't share. That's how he initially justifies lying right to their faces the day Pennyworth arrives, the 13th day after Batman supposedly died in the explosion, almost two weeks since the last time anyone can officially verify Bruce Wayne's presence in the city, and the earliest a civilian is granted permission to re-enter the lower portion of Gotham.

 

They'd met before, John and Pennyworth, that day he'd driven out to the Wayne estate nearly six months and a whole lifetime ago. Curt but polite, almost seemingly pleased to let him inside the place—and when he'd left, Pennyworth had looked at him, a certain expression on his face, and John in hindsight has decided that look was hopeful, optimistic, maybe a smidgen encouraging. 'Get him out,' he figured the guy had been thinking. 'Give him a reason to get the hell off the property for once.'

 

Well, if that were the case, then John succeeded admirably. If his job were setting things in motion, he'd be like a fucking fish in water because that seems to be all he ever accomplishes. John starts shit, and he very rarely is the one who has to finish it, and he doesn't know if that's luck or bad karma—six of one, half dozen of the other.

 

He doesn't know if he's a good man to know or the guy people die cursing.

 

Fox steps forward first to meet Pennyworth and shake his hand. It's formal and controlled just like the two men themselves, but the cracks are there. Fox is always frowning, has this hangdog expression, and John's heard a bit about the autopilot situation from Selina and even less from Bruce, but he's got the gist of it. Fox feels guilt for not fixing the autopilot himself when he had the chance, and John feels guilt for not being able to tell him. . .

 

"You lied?" John had asked, flabbergasted.

 

"No," Bruce had responded. A second or two passed in silence, and then he'd elaborated. "I really didn't know if it would work. Not like there was a manual."

 

"Still," John had said, "that's pretty. . . "

 

"What, _cold_?" And everything about Bruce in that moment, from his face to his posture to his voice had been, well, cold too.

  
John had met his eyes and nodded.

 

"'Prepare for the worst'," Bruce had retorted.

 

"No 'hope for the best'?" John had quoted back, angry and sad and horrified.

 

And he thought it pretty much summed up Bruce as a person when he'd answered, "That _was_ hoping for the best."

 

"Lucius," Pennyworth greets, and he's chilly but not cold, not detached like. . .

 

"Alfred," is Fox's response, and then they stop shaking, but Fox brings up his other hand and briefly squeezes Pennyworth's hand in both of his own. Then, that's it. They step back, and it's the Commissioner's turn.

 

Pennyworth narrows his eyes when Gordon says quietly, stiltedly, "My sincerest condolences, sir," but they shake hands too, and nothing more is said.

 

"Sir," John offers, when it's his turn and those critical eyes are evaluating him, trying, no doubt, to figure out what he knows and what he'll give away and what his role in Bruce's "death" had been.

 

They don't shake hands. Pennyworth doesn't offer and neither does John. It's no doubt intended as an insult, but it comes as a relief.

 

There's a fucking motorcade behind the four of them, all to give the best impression possible, to convey the message that the city's taking this seriously, that Bruce Wayne is still important, that his death is a tragedy, that what happened is now seen for what it is.

 

A big fat fucking atonement, is what this show is all about. They dismissed Bruce as soon as he stopped being entertaining, made him a punch line, mocked and cheered when he first "wasted" his money on the clean energy idea and then had it stolen the day before the start of The Occupation.

 

Well, they're not laughing anymore. Now, they feel bad. Now, they're reevaluating the situation. Too little, too fucking late.

 

Or maybe not. John keeps hoping that every time he brings back news of what's going on and of how people are grieving that it will stir something up inside Bruce, that he'll slowly come to realize that he's not forgotten or irrelevant, that he's part of this, not outside it.

 

No luck so far.

 

He'd left mid-morning today after his and Bruce's run, after that shower to end all showers, to come here and stand here and lie here, and it's easy to think of it all as just a waste of time, futile. Bruce won't change, won't be changed, and people are people. They'll forget. In time, The Occupation and the Batman will be soapboxes, platforms, rallying cries for the same corrupt politicians and the same social reforms that never happen, and books will be written and films and TV shows made, and none of it will factor in at all.

 

It's easy to be pessimistic.

 

John has two strategies in life—fight or flight, and the former wins out more than the latter, but he does nothing small. He's not subtle. He's not good at pussyfooting around and slowly manipulating people like chess pieces. He sucks at chess, hasn't the patience for it—more of a leap before looking kinda guy. All this strategy is usually embarrassingly out of his depth, but it comes to him then that maybe there's a way to navigate this gulf between Bruce and the rest of the world. Maybe he can split the difference between the complete lie and the absolute truth.

 

John charges in, and Bruce plans out, but Selina, Selina, Selina—now, she does both, doesn't she?

 

"Where to first, Mr. Pennyworth?" John asks, and it's bold, blunt, somewhat ruthless even, but Pennyworth's looking at him differently, not like a moment ago. "Have you been out to the mansion yet?"

 

"Not yet, no," the man eventually answers, and in his tone John hears the gears rapidly turning, the ideas formulating. "I was rushed here for this pomposity."

 

"Probably best to start out there," John offers, and then he goes in for the kill, wanting to put to rest any doubts or reservations the other three might have about him, specifically the extent of his knowledge. "Or at the docks." Three pairs of eyes are on him at that, and he adds, "Although at this point, I think that bunker's pretty much been cleaned out."

 

He barely resists adding 'if you know what I mean.' But, that would be too quick. It'd give it away, and he needs to tread carefully, maneuver around all the traps and tripwires.

 

'Prepare them for the worst.' Oh, they're already there.

 

Now it's the second part, time to give them some hope— _some_ , while he keeps working on the rest of the problem, while he keeps up with Bruce, while he and Selina work at amends.

 

"The Manor then, if you please, Officer Blake," Pennyworth says to him.

 

John shoots him the tiniest smile ever, as he turns with his keys in hand and gestures towards the car. "No 'Officer' anymore, Mr. Pennyworth. Just 'Blake' is fine—or John."

 

***

 

The place is empty when he gets back, no Bruce, no Selina, and instantly the alarms in his head go off. Not right, they scream; something's not right here. Like in a dream, John walks through the apartment, straight from the door to the miniscule bedroom and right to the safe because no Bruce and no Selina means the presence of someone else, the hand of another, intruding, interfering.

 

And John already has a pretty good idea whose hand that is. His gut, his intuition brings him back to the other day, the first 'run' he and Bruce went on, and it's always been there, some part of the whole scheme lurking in the back of his mind like that one puzzle piece. Bruce Wayne is Batman, Robin had realized, short for his age, scrawny, 14 years old and so goddamn naïve, the little tough guy, hitting bigger kids with lunch trays and considering himself a true badass after he'd had his nose broken the third time. Bruce Wayne, billionaire orphan, is the Bat, and it had all fallen into place. Then, the Joker happened, and they'd all had to grow the fuck up and stop believing in miracles and superheroes. Juvie, then prison, had been Robin's fate, and John had turned that around right quick, nipped that in the bud.

 

But, now it's the Joker again and Bruce again, and maybe it's the Batman again too. Maybe, though, it's someone else too. No such thing as coincidences, right?

 

John carries his gun with him at all times, so he's ready to go. He grabs the flashlight from his duffle, though, before locking up Selina's apartment again and heading out.

 

The safe was empty, and John's willing to bet that the rest will turn out how he's guessed too. The coincidences are piling up, like—puzzle pieces dumped on the floor. That clinic will be short a doctor when he gets there; the folks around will stutter and shrug when he asks about a guy with big scars on his cheeks; Selina will be holed up somewhere, temporarily taken out of the picture because she's too valuable as leverage to be done away with permanently.

 

A trap. Fucking chess pieces moving on the board. John hates this stuff.

 

Robin, though, was pretty good at it. Little detective, pint-sized hero, he'd considered himself the smartest kid in any room. Had to be.

 

Bruce, you brash fucking idiot, John is thinking on a loop. He runs blocks and blocks, always keeping an eye up towards the rooftops—looking for a dark shadow carefully making its way. Likely already weighed the options, decided this is the best course of action. Maybe even put it together the other day on that 'run.' While John had been focusing on keeping his hands to himself and making sure Bruce didn't pop his stitches, Bruce had been staring down the street at the clinic. "Elliot," he'd said, and it'd been too knowing, sad, angry—disgusted.

 

John knew there'd been something off about that guy but couldn't prove it. Fucking creepy fish-eyes.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

She's asleep and dreaming but can't wake up. Obviously they're memories, nightmares, but it feels real, and that's why it's terrifying—because they are real. They were real. This happened and is happening, and she can't escape no matter how hard she struggles to just. Wake. Up.

 

She's trying to swim, but there's no room to move. There's the sound of howling all around her, screams, and she needs to get to it, get out, get up above the water, but she's trapped, and the air is running out. The howling is cats, and the little one with the black spot on its nose claws open the sack, freeing her, and she pushes up out of the river into the bathtub in the old house but breaks the surface in one of the rooms at the Lexington Hotel—her second job. Stan's voice calls out from the bedroom, but he wasn't there. That's not right. He isn't here, never comes into the room with her. Always outside on the curb, smoking, waiting, waiting for her to get to it, get to the howling and moaning and then stumble down to him with the money.

 

She slips getting out of the tub, and it's hers in Oldtown, and Holly's out in the living room with Jen, and they're laughing and wheezing so hard it sounds like–

 

She looks up when a hand touches her leather shoulder. Maggie hands her a huge black towel, smiling, but when she takes it—it's the cape, and it's covered in blood. It doesn't wipe off.

 

"Out, damned spot," Maggie says, and it's muffled because she's on the floor, chewing something round and squishy, and the flesh of her back is peeled like an orange, her spine snapped clean in half, and then John is curled around her and whispers in her ear. But now it's her on the ground with Maggie trapped beneath the floor, her clawed hands curled around the bars of a cell. She's still smiling. She looks like Mom when she smiles.

 

John is chanting, "Don't be shy; just a little farther; you should be just as afraid as I am," and she looks up.

 

"I guess we're both suckers," Bruce says, reaching down for her, pulling her up, and cradling her face in his hands, but then she blinks, glances away for a split second, and he's down. And he doesn't get back up. He's dragged away by Stan, who winks at her.

 

She's holding his cape in her hands, and the water rushes up, and the howling starts again, and she feels a deep ache in her chest and looks down—and her heart's gone.

 

That's what Maggie's eating. . .

 

Selina wakes up, screaming.

 

***

 

Leslie isn't here. She'd left hours ago to go home and sleep. Instead, it's one of the helpers, a blonde girl who smiles and giggles and tries to distract Selina from, well, everything. She's got a voice that's shrill, but her hands are steady. When she sets one on Selina's good shoulder, it isn't unpleasant. It's somewhat comforting.

 

She flinches at shadows and loud noises. Her left eyelid is twitching, and her hands shake. She hopes she's sick because the alternative is she's broken, and now is definitely not the time or place for some kind of nervous breakdown. It was just a little scuffle. She can't figure out why she's taking it so hard.

 

Joker. Terrifying, but he hadn't even done anything out of the ordinary. Threatened her a little with a knife, but that's about it. Zsasz would've carved her up, but Joker pushed her away, set her free. She doesn't know what that means, but just thinking about it sends chills down her—spine.

 

The clinic is cold but full of warm people, all busy and kind, and still she's freaking out. It's irrational how scared she is right now, but she can't help it. She tries breathing slowly but ends up hyperventilating. She's sweated through the borrowed clothes Leslie gave her, and the fingernails on her left hand are bitten down bloody.

 

What if John didn't get the message? What if he went out anyway? What if Zsasz and Joker followed her here and are just waiting for her to come out so they can finish what she actually started? What if Bruce left, went out, was found out, was hurt, was killed? What if they're both gone when she goes back, and she's all alone here for the rest of her life? What if they lock her up again?

 

What if she ends up sharing a padded cell upstate with Maggie?

 

What if she dies here? Maybe they're poisoning her. Leslie, Leslie Thompkins, she's not all that saintly. Maybe she's jealous. Yeah, they're all jealous and angry, and they're all working together, these doctors and nurses and young fucking helpers.

 

She grabs the blonde girl's wrist when she comes too near. "I know what you're doing to me," she hisses, and the girl's justifiably scared, those big eyes almost comically wide as she tries to slip Selina's hold.

 

"Don't know what you're talking 'bout, sweetie," the chick simpers, still tugging on her arm to free it. "All just want you to– to get better!"

 

"Liar," Selina whispers. "Poison is a woman's weapon; isn't that what they say?" She pulls the struggling girl closer and asks rhetorically, "It's the Doctor, isn't it?" And though seemingly impossible, the girl looks even more scared. "Not all sunbeams and lollipops, is she?!" Selina shouts right in her face.

 

But that's when Selina really gets scared—because the girl calms right down, stops struggling and instead reaches up with her other hand to pat Selina on the cheek.

 

"Oh, you're so confused, darlin'!" she exclaims in mock concern, and Selina gets goosebumps from the tone of her voice. . .

 

Then she smiles and reaches behind her, coming back with a full hypodermic needle. Selina instantly recoils, sliding down the bed and bringing up her legs to flip around the girl, but when she–

 

She slides all right, but her legs are like lead, and she's immediately dizzy—and the girl's laughing hysterically. Selina's still got a tight grip on her wrist, but with just a downward slam of her other arm against Selina's, the girl easily breaks the hold. She's fast and strong, stronger than Selina is, and it's poison. Leslie's poisoned her, the bitch!

 

She puts up a token fight, but with every hit blocked, too many missed swings, and two failed attempts at simply getting off the bed—she's– she's done for. The girl sticks her and gleefully pushes down the plunger, and she doesn't know how that face or those hands ever could have seemed kind or comforting.

 

"Wh– why?" Selina asks, still flailing, still trying, but her arms are jello, and she can't think, can't think past the fear, the certainty now that she's going to die here, and no one will ever know or would even care if they did. Oh, Maggie, she thinks, I've ruined it all again.

 

The girl bats away her arms until she can hardly move anymore, just lie there twitching, and then she reaches down and pulls Selina back up the bed, even going so far as to straighten out her clothes and the twisted blanket hanging nearly to the floor. She pats Selina on the cheek again, and her face is awful.

 

It's a lie, that face, and yet it's the truest goddamn thing she's ever seen. Crazy and warped and just wrong, but it's all right there for her to see.

 

"Just you rest, honey," she croons. "Doc's on his way to see you, and then we'll get you moved to your new digs—nice and cozy and with nothing to bother you!"

 

She closes her eyes and feels a tear roll down, and then the blonde bitch from Hell is whispering in her ear, "You fight, and I inject. You lie still; I don't."

 

Selina opens her eyes, but it takes forever. A sedative? Blonde and tiny and quick and agile, and it's on the tip of her tongue, some remark about groupies and badbangers. . .

 

Then the door opens, and Selina blinks and screams, and her vision goes hazy, and she remembers the girl's face when she'd said 'Doctor' and her face when she'd said 'she,' and, really, she should have guessed.

 

Slippery fucker. Lots of doctors here. Only one's a Scarecrow though.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

It's winter and therefore cold, but he doesn't feel it, not through the armor and not through the exertion of running, flat-out running, for blocks over obstacles and up a fire escape and across rooftops. There's no snow on the ground, and the condensation in the air has yet to fall as frost, so the way is clear, firm, and his body knows what to do. His feet are sure.

 

He'd put on the suit, but he isn't the Bat this time. The armor, what's still viable, yes, but the cowl and the cape had stayed back in the safe. He's just going to have to be careful when it comes to blows aimed at his head. Instead, it's back to the old ski mask routine.  

 

And, getting ready, he'd slid shut the last latch on his left calf, testing it for any give, and when it was secure he'd repeated the process with the right side and then up, double- and triple-checking the plating around his left knee because of the brace. It hadn't been specifically designed with the armor in mind, and he'd noticed before that the brace had a tendency to, when he twisted his leg a certain way, catch on the plate right below his knee. As he comes to another alley, he tries it now, and, yes, it's still doing it, but at least he knows to continue to watch out for that. It's manageable, nothing too big—nothing like the ruined plate on the torso section where that sharp, curving knife had slammed in hard, deep, taking both air and conviction from him in one swift, precise move. Looking at that section of the armor now in the faint light of the city at night, the jagged edge of the hole, that's when the doubt just barely starts to creep in.

 

But, he can do this, take down the violently, criminally insane if he has to. This isn't about proving a point or making an example. This is duty and obligation. It should be silent, smooth, a shadow barely seen out the corner of one's eye.

 

God help the asshole who tries to mug or rape someone tonight. He's not feeling particularly merciful at the moment.

 

Once there, the clinic below does indeed have a line trailing out its door, just as John had said it did a few days ago. The people waiting are desperate and ill, and something deep inside him aches with the knowledge that they mean nothing to at least one of the caregivers within. They are a means to an end, and what that end is Bruce doesn't quite know, but it's not altruistic or humane.

 

Tommy was nice to him, condescending but nice, polite. Usually, they had just played chess, and Tommy would talk, and some of the things he'd said had made sense—and some things hadn't. Now, though, with what Bruce knows happened with Tommy after the two of them had drifted apart socially, those cruelly strange thoughts spoken in a child's voice do carry more weight and ring with a certain unpleasant truth. Tommy had always been cynical, often petty, but he was extremely intelligent and excelled at strategy. Upon his return all those years ago, when Bruce had heard through the grapevine all that had happened, it made the same kind of sense that Tommy would be a doctor as it did that Bruce would be—Batman. Power over life and death, justice, always in control and never the victims, not ever again, this is what they had become.

 

How proud their parents would be. Bruce's would be horrified, and Tommy's would laugh.

 

He's not here tonight, though. Bruce gets inside the clinic through one of the windows, and he finds a small office and knows immediately it's Dr. Thomas Elliot's, but it's dark and locked up for the night, and there's no voice in the building that could possibly be Tommy. The words aren't right, the sarcasm absent. The doctors and nurses and support staff on call tonight are all—too nice. They're good people, and Tommy most definitely is not.

 

He wonders if Tommy is anywhere near as convincing in his act as kindly Dr. Elliot as he was as idiotic billionaire Bruce Wayne.

 

And, alas, despite continuing to search through the night, he doesn't find him. He goes back to Selina's apartment, mentally prepared to defend the necessity of his actions, but neither John nor Selina is there. It's not right; he knows that. Something is happening here, coming to a head. But, who _would_ know?   

 

The mastermind behind it all.

 

So he peels off the armor and briefly cleans it but doesn't put it back in the safe. He just tucks it back into the closet and showers, shaves, puts on something inconspicuous, and bright and early at eight o'clock he goes back to the clinic.

 

Time to get the stitches out, after all.

 

"I'm here to see Dr. Elliot," he says to the man working the intake desk. The guy nods distractedly, eyes still down as he rifles through a huge pile of folders on the desk. Computers down, makes sense they'd resorted to paper documentation once again. Everything old is new again. Bruce clears his throat loudly, and the man glances up, down, and then comes back for the double-take, staring at Bruce and unfortunately obviously recognizing him. Before he can say anything, Bruce leans over the desk slightly and says, "Dr. Elliot. Please." He doesn't feel up to playing games with this man and isn't even sure the honeyed approach would work in the first place, so instead it's business-like and only slightly menacing. It's the fact that he's not worried about what he's doing right now that concerns him. He's walking around in public, and some people, thankfully not all, are going to recognize him, and word of this getting out. . .

 

Rumors. Gossip. They'll never prove anything, and soon it won't be an issue because he will be gone.

 

"Uh, yeah," the guy eventually says, moving out from behind the desk, clearly ill at ease, and leading him down a hallway and right to the door of that office Bruce had broke into just a few hours ago. He knocks on the door, looking at Bruce uncertainly as they wait, and Bruce almost smiles at him. What a strange situation this man is in, and he doesn't have the faintest idea. That's when, from over the man's shoulder, Bruce sees a figure come walking towards them from the other end of the hallway.

 

"Brett," the newcomer says, and the hair on the back of Bruce's neck stands up, and a shiver slides down his spine, "did you need something?"

  
  
Brett the desk guy turns around to answer, and in doing so Bruce is apparently revealed to be standing behind him.

 

"Yeah, Doctor, this is, uh– " and Brett awkwardly indicates Bruce, "he's here to see you."

 

Tommy is indeed a very good actor. Bruce just barely catches the tail end of surprise and anger, and even that's only visible in his eyes for half a second. The rest of his face is as perfectly composed as a portrait and just as immobile. A kind, blank smile, smooth forehead, and slight uptick to the eyebrows, and all that expression conveys is care and competence.

 

"Ah!" Tommy responds, nodding and briefly setting a hand on Brett's shoulder in reassurance. "Yes, well, thank you for showing him the way. Wouldn't want to get lost in a place like this!" He chuckles, and Brett relaxes under his hand and smiles.

 

"Glad I could help," Brett offers to both Tommy and Bruce. He then nods and politely takes his leave, most likely calmly walking back out to the front desk.

 

Bruce doesn't see that, though, his eyes pinned straight ahead. There's the space of two seconds after Brett's footfalls pass out of hearing range, during which neither of them breathes or moves, and then Tommy breaks eye contact and shifts to unlock his door. Once done, he flings it open and waves Bruce in pleasantly.

 

"After you," he says, happily, and loath as he is to allow Tommy at his back, Bruce nevertheless precedes him inside.

 

It's almost like a dream. Is this really happening? He feels disconnected but fully present. Maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's just—fear and desperation.

 

He turns around just as Tommy shuts the door, and then blinks when he's abruptly seized up in a tight and seemingly friendly bear hug.

 

"Oh, wow, Bruce!" Tommy says into his ear, and it's shocking and unsettling how convincingly relieved and overjoyed he sounds—an _extremely_ good actor.

 

Bruce manages a few pats on the back, and then he attempts to pull away, but Tommy slides his hands down Bruce's arms and then grips his elbows, keeping him uncomfortably close.

 

"It's good to see you again," Tommy's mouth gushes, the coldness of the rest of his face showing it to be a lie. "Well," and here he chuckles again, "up and about anyway. I did see you a little while ago. . . "

 

Bruce seizes on that moment and steps out of reach definitively, Tommy's eyes never leaving his. He smiles, going for embarrassed and oblivious, saying, "And, boy, am I grateful to you for patching me up! My friends," he emphasizes, "were completely worried, but—you know me! I'm just a real klutz sometimes, not to mention pretty damn unlucky!" He punctuates this with a little chuckle of his own, Tommy grinning back in response, and here they stand.

 

"So," Tommy then says, moving away to lean against the top of his desk and waving Bruce over to one of the chairs in front of it, "it's been two weeks since I had a look at you. Ready to have those stitches taken out, I assume?" Another kind smile accompanied by calculating eyes.

 

Bruce nods, good humored and stupid, and, again, it's only for the briefest of moments, there and gone in a flash like before out in the hall, but as Tommy nods and gets to his feet, just as he's stepping around Bruce to leave the office to go and get the supplies, there is a wash of frustration and rage over his face. Then, he's temporarily gone, and Bruce sucks in a deep lungful of air, realizing he's been holding his breath for the last minute or two.

 

He's scared and is himself angry and frustrated, likely just as much as Tommy is, if for vastly different reasons. How did it get this bad? Had he always been like this, lying like this? Bruce knows that after his parents died, he and Tommy didn't spend much time alone together, but was that coincidental, or had someone, namely Alfred, seen something? There was the time at camp a couple years later when Tommy lost it and went berserk on that kid, and that had been the last time Bruce had seen him until just now, but what if something had happened before that? Did nobody catch this?

 

Nobody, not even Alfred, had caught what was inside Bruce, after all—and Tommy had most definitely not had an Alfred. Something with the father, though, or the mother, or both, and he can remember sitting in the waiting room with Tommy and trying to comfort him as Dad worked on Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, and he hadn't been able to do anything because the comforting wasn't needed until after the surgeries, when Dad had come out and told them—and Tommy hadn't been sad that his father was dead, only sad and furious his mother wasn't also.

 

Footsteps down the hallway, and Tommy comes back inside carrying a tray with alcohol, specialized shears, towels, bandages, and a small bowl. He's smiling politely once more, and Bruce remembers it had only been a couple weeks after the shooting when he and Tommy were playing chess again, when Tommy had said, "Happiness depends upon ourselves."

 

The tray is set down on the desk, but Tommy comes over and sits in the chair next to Bruce's and gestures for him to undress so the stitches can be taken out. As he stands and slips off his coat and slowly, carefully, and not entirely easily, pulls off the sweatshirt and undershirt, Bruce looks at Tommy and asks, "Who was it you always used to quote, you know, when we were kids?"

 

Tommy blinks, his face going blank for a second, and Bruce interprets that as genuine surprise, but then Tommy's smiling again. "Aristotle," he answers, quietly, and now he looks pleased. His entire face, eyes included, looks absolutely pleased and proud, and Bruce isn't quite sure what that means but doubts it's anything good. "You remembered," he adds.

 

Bruce nods and, after draping his clothes over the back of his chair, sits back down and slowly raises his arm, angling his body so Tommy has the most space to work in. "I knew it was someone important, anyway," Bruce remarks, and this time when Tommy meets his eyes, Bruce doesn't smile.

 

And Tommy gets it. He doesn't smile either, but there's something in his eyes now, and it's not warmth, at least not the kind one wants to stand anywhere near, but it's something—understanding maybe. It's life, anyway. There's someone home now, not just a lizard brain or a machine.

 

Then Tommy drops his eyes to Bruce's side and methodically begins taking out the stitches. First, he sterilizes the area and then the snips, and then he leans close and cuts one stitch, pulling it free and dropping it in the bowl on the tray, repeating the process again and again. His left knee and foot are touching Bruce's right leg and foot, and his fingers are warm and smooth and careful, and it's all Bruce can do not to shudder every time they touch skin.

 

Who is this Dr. Thomas Elliot, and what has he been doing—and _why_?

 

"There," Tommy says a moment later, scraping off the last stitch into the bowl and setting down the scissors on the tray. He reaches over and grabs the bottle of alcohol again and a sterile cloth and goes around the closed stab wound, gently, efficiently.

 

Bruce breathes in deeply again, and, meeting Tommy's eyes, now they both know Bruce was holding his breath. No grin or smile flits across his face. Instead, the smirk is all in Tommy's eyes, like that's where he really lives.

 

Bruce looks down at his side, and the seam is pink but healthy. "Great job, Doc," he says, lightly. "You're quite the hand at this whole healing thing."

 

Tommy nods, placing a large, thin Band-Aid over the wound and smoothing it down, his left hand sliding along Bruce's ribs at one point in something that is, in direct opposition to how it would be for anyone else and a doctor, disguised as a caress but is in fact a clinical assessment. Tommy's seen Bruce at his worst, delirious, on Death's doorstep from blood poisoning, and he's seen all the scars and felt all the damage. He knows Bruce's physical limitations, no doubt about that. This is Tommy proving that, telling Bruce in no uncertain terms that whatever this battle is they're waging—Tommy has the advantage.

 

"I enjoy it," Tommy says, responding to Bruce's comment. He then looks up as he moves back, the stitches out and his job done. "Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work," he quotes.

 

There's no smile, no smirk, and the eyes are cold, but Bruce understands what he's saying.

 

Goodbye, Tommy.

 

And he might have felt sad about it, might still somewhere deep, but they're adults now. Everyone has a sob story, but not everyone decides to stage a mass breakout of the criminally insane for some greater purpose, and not everyone threatens people Bruce cares about.

 

Tommy isn't sad, and neither is Bruce.

 

"Thanks again, Tommy," Bruce says a few moments later, once he's dressed and they're both standing near the door of the office. "You saved my life back there."

 

Tommy nods and offers his hand, and Bruce shakes it.

 

"My pleasure," he answers. Then, he squeezes Bruce's hand and says, "Don't be a stranger now."

 

 


End file.
